September
by ainur
Summary: Frodo angst- AU - In the weeks preceding Frodo & Bilbo's birthday party, plans for the celebration are halted when tragedy strikes. NO slash-violence-profanity. Please R/R! :)
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters, I don't own Bag End, or the Shire, or Middle-Earth, or anything at all! I'm just writing this fic to entertain myself, and hopefully others. :)  
  
A/N: Ok, this is my second fic, still Frodo angst. :) And… I know all of you are just going to want to smack me by the end of it. I already want to smack me, and this is only the first chapter. :) *Sigh* I know there isn't really any angst in this chapter, but there will be in future ones, starting with chapter two. Chapter one is just for setting up the rest of the story.  
  
Again, there is *no* slash, profanity, violence, or anything else that may be considered not 'PG'. This fic is rated such because… well, you'll just have to wait and see.  
  
And of course, tons of huge thankyous' to everyone who read and reviewed my first fic (which is still a work in progress). :) Thanks for the constructive criticism, thanks for taking the time to read it, and thanks for giving me motivation to write more. You guys are great! :) I hope you will continue to read my fics and enjoy them as much (or hopefully more) as the first one. :)  
  
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Chapter One:  
  
A tweenaged Frodo Baggins sat dutifully on the ground beside a tree-stump, using it as a desk, inkwell and paper spread out before him. His cheeks were rosy-pink from being exposed to the slightly chilled air, 'twas a good feeling though, not one of being truly cold- just one that reminded you how alive you were, and how much vitality the seasons of Middle-Earth could bestow upon its inhabitants. The autumn breezes whirled playfully about him tousling his curly dark-brown hair, and ruffling the edges of his papers, threatening to carry his quill pen away.  
  
He closed his eyes for a moment; breathing in the crisp air and listening to the leaves rustle as they blew in circles, performing an invisible, endless waltz with the wind. The very smell of autumn raised ones spirits. The distinct, tangy odor of chimney fires, relit for the first time since the last frost. The bustling of woodland creatures, and shire folk alike, storing the last of their goods before winter set in.  
  
He sighed; Frodo did so love this time of year. It was September, Halimath, 1st, year 1390 of the Shire Reckoning, and his uncle Bilbo had charged him with planning their birthday celebration, set for the 22nd of the month. It would be Frodo's 23rd, and Bilbo's 101st. And, Frodo's first since leaving Brandy Hall and coming to live with his uncle Bilbo at Bag End.  
  
Frodo grasped a stray paper just as an odd gust came and picked it up, ready to blow it out of his reach. "Whoa, now!" he yelled to the sheet of parchment, "I'm not done with you, you're meant to go back home with me. It would, indeed, be a shame if I should have to start over again all on account of the wind!" He laughed, brushing the hair out of his blue eyes. "Now then," he thought, "If I ask Ferdinand to the party then he will surely bring Doderic, so I needn't write out two invitations." He paused, rubbing the feather of his pen against his cheek, in thought. "Holly, Petunica, and Daffodil would surely come as well." So much had been done in preparation of the party, and yet so much remained undone. Frodo sighed. Finishing guest lists, collecting last minute presents to give everyone. And of course, who could forget, the menu… that was always open to change, so long as it was something that could be had within the shire. Food. His stomach was growling; he had been out of doors since just after luncheon and hadn't brought a snack. Although, Frodo hadn't intended to stay gone as long as he had. The sun was just beginning to meet the horizon; dusk would be arriving soon, as the days were now much shorter than they had been. Frodo also knew that Bilbo would worry if he didn't arrive home shortly.  
  
Frodo gathered his things, placing them carefully back into his small pack, and turned to head home.  
  
He couldn't help smiling when Bag End finally came into view, it's round, green door and bright brass handle gleamed even now, in the twilight. Warm lamplight from the interior shined out welcomingly into the dusk. Frodo sniffed the air; it smelled of fresh baked bread and boiled mushroom dumplings. Bilbo had been busy while he was gone, cooking all kinds of delightful treats, he expected.  
  
Frodo clasped the handle, turned it, and the cheerful green door swung open on well-oiled hinges. He closed it quietly behind him, and hung his cloak up on a peg behind the door in the foyer.  
  
"Uncle Bilbo!" Frodo called, "Bilbo, I'm home!" He walked briskly into the kitchen, finding his uncle washing up the last of the cooking pans. The older hobbit spun about, favoring his young nephew with a smile.  
  
"Oh my, Frodo, I'm glad to see you home!" Bilbo spoke, wiping his hands on a dry cloth. He walked over to Frodo, giving him a once over, making sure nothing was out of place. Bilbo loved his nephew dearly. Frodo was the closest thing to a son that Bilbo had ever had, and these past months with the tweenager had been nothing short of magical for the old bachelor. "Yes, my lad, dinner is ready." Bilbo embraced his heir fondly, and Frodo returned the gesture of affection. "I suspect- or at least I would hope- that *'twas* what you were going to ask me?" the older hobbit grinned.  
  
Frodo laughed, "Why of course, Bilbo, I haven't eaten since luncheon!" He rubbed his stomach, smelling the wonderful food, eager to get a plate of it.  
  
"Ah well, my boy, you shan't want for anything tonight!" Bilbo spoke, gesturing proudly towards the modest wooden table filled with delectable dishes.  
  
"Bilbo, you know I never do around here!" Frodo replied, making his way over to the table, seating himself at his usual place.  
  
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The evening wore on. Bilbo and Frodo both eventually got their fill of the wonderful food. Frodo shared his day with Bilbo, and in turn, Bilbo shared a tale, from his travels, with Frodo.  
  
Frodo had known of many of these tales for most of his life, but now they seemed different somehow. Sitting in Bilbo's study or sitting room, actually being able to hold Sting. Eating at the same table that the dwarves had sat at all those years ago. It definitely brought a whole new light to the stories.  
  
"But," Frodo protested, "How did you manage to remain unseen on the barrels, uncle Bilbo?"  
  
Bilbo chuckled, "Now Frodo, my lad, a hobbit has his secrets." He finished, taking another puff of his pipe.  
  
"Well," the tweenaged hobbit began, "Perhaps, someday, you can tell me how you did it?" Frodo suggested, smiling, "I would think that a skill such as that would prove valuable in certain situations!" Frodo laughed merrily.  
  
"Ah, maybe someday, Frodo. Someday." Bilbo looked thoughtful, putting one hand in his pocket as he continued to puff on his pipe.  
  
They sat for a few minutes in silence before Bilbo finally broke the spell, "Well, Frodo, we best be off to bed." Bilbo voiced, as he rose from his place by the hearth, "We've a lot more work to do before all of our party affairs are in place." The old hobbit smiled.  
  
"Yes Bilbo," Frodo nodded, "I've nearly finished my gift giving list, and the invitations will soon be ready for delivery." He yawned. "Goodnight, Bilbo." Frodo gave a last smile to his uncle, before turning towards his room.  
  
"Goodnight, dear Frodo." Bilbo replied, smiling as he walked down the hall towards his own room.  
  
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Frodo entered his room, and stood just inside the door, reveling in the feeling of euphoria that he had been experiencing since coming to live Bag End and becoming Bilbo's heir. It seemed, that finally, things were going right for him.  
  
"My room." Frodo thought, smiling to himself. He was trying to take in everything: the size of his new room- it was much larger than his old one at Brandy Hall; it was well furnished and clearly tended with great care. It had been so long since he was really cared for as an *individual* hobbit. Since his parents' death when he was 12, he had just been another one of the many hobbit lads that lived in Brandy Hall, merely a face in the crowd. Now, at last, he was someone's child again.  
  
Frodo got into his bedclothes, and lay down on the soft bed. He was asleep within minutes.  
  
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A/N: Ok, that's it for the first chapter. :) I hope you guys liked it! And like I said, there will be plenty angst in future chapters, I just had to set the scene for the rest of the story.  
  
As always, please review and give constructive criticism! :) 


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks to everyone for the wonderful reviews and compliments! :)  
  
Tangelian Proudfoot, thank you so much for adding me to your favorite authors list! I've tried to add people to mine, but it doesn't seem to work. :( I don't know what I'm doing wrong.  
  
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Chapter 2:  
  
Bilbo kept one hand on the wall, steadying himself as he felt his way down the main corridor of his hole. He used the bright flashes of lightning and the flickering light of his candle as guides. It had been a stormy night but he hadn't woken until he heard what he believed to be a cry; coming from down the hall. Bilbo, being the concerned uncle that he was, jumped out of bed, threw a blanket over his shoulders and grabbed a candle on the way to Frodo's room. The lad had never been especially frightened by thunderstorms, but Bilbo didn't want to wait and find out in the morning that Frodo had lay in bed awake all night, unable to sleep because of the storm.  
  
The old hobbit paused in front of a window that looked out over his front garden as a particularly vivid bolt of lightning streaked through the dark sky, followed by a booming clap of thunder that shook the earth beneath his feet. Bilbo could see the rain coming down in torrents, from every direction. Big drops of it, falling to the ground and bursting on the early- fall vegetation. He shook his head; it was strange weather for the time of year.  
  
"Mr. Gamgee will have his work cut out for him after a storm like this," Bilbo thought, as he watched soil spill out of the flowerbed and wash away down the path with the runoff.  
  
He continued on down the hall, and stopped in front of Frodo's door, knocking softly a few times. Bilbo waited a few moments, giving Frodo a chance to answer, before turning the knob.  
  
The older hobbit opened the door tentatively, "Frodo?" he whispered, "Frodo, are you sleeping?" Bilbo entered the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. "I thought I heard you call me, so I came to check in on you. This is quite a storm we're having tonight." He finished, setting his candle down on Frodo's nightstand.  
  
"Bilbo." Frodo spoke with a sigh, barely audible over the pounding noise of the rain outside.  
  
"Yes, lad, I'm here now. Did you call for me?" Bilbo questioned as he took a seat on the corner of Frodo's bed, putting a hand on the tweenagers small shoulder.  
  
"No," Frodo began; "I mean, I don't think so…I didn't mean to wake you up…" he trailed off.  
  
"Oh 'tis alright Frodo." Bilbo caught a glimpse of Frodo's face in the candlelight; his pale cheeks were clearly streaked with tears. "What's wrong, my boy?" he asked, an anxious tone to his voice. "Are you well? You feel a little on the warm side." Bilbo finished, putting the back of his hand to the tweenagers forehead.  
  
Frodo wiped his eyes and turned onto his side; facing his uncle, "Yes uncle Bilbo. I am all right. I just had an unpleasant dream…that's all" he whispered, tears welling up in his eyes again as he began to remember it.  
  
"Ah, I see." Bilbo began quietly, reaching one hand up to stroke Frodo's hair, "And what might that dream have been about?"  
  
Frodo closed his eyes once more, deciding whether or not he wanted to divulge the details of his nightmare. He was a private hobbit, as many tweenagers were, and even his uncle Bilbo didn't know everything that went through his mind.  
  
"It was about my parents, Bilbo." Frodo sighed, "Do you think that it's harder to live with this knowing that I didn't get to say goodbye? Or would saying goodbye…knowing that it was goodbye… have made it even worse?" he finished, his voice quavering.  
  
"Well, Frodo," Bilbo looked into his young nephews deep blue eyes, "I suppose that it would have been just as hard either way… things of that nature aren't easy to deal with under any circumstances." The old hobbit continued, "The suddenness of it…" He left the sentence unfinished. He had often talked with Frodo about the accident. Acting like it never happened would have been like putting a lid over a pot of boiling water. It wouldn't have made the steam go away, nor would it have kept the pressure from building up. Though it pained Frodo to discuss what happened, Bilbo was sure that it would make for easier going in the long run. Healing often times proved to be a painful process.  
  
"Come now, Frodo, tell your uncle Bilbo about it." Bilbo coaxed, "I won't tire of listening until you tire of talking." He smiled.  
  
Frodo flashed a small smile to his uncle, but immediately sobered as he began to speak "I dreamt that it happened all over again." He sniffled. "I still remember it, Bilbo. The feeling I got… when I found out what had happened." He closed his eyes again, tears sliding down his face, dampening the pillow that his head lay on. Frodo shook his head slowly, trying not to lose his train of thought and regain his voice.  
  
Bilbo could do nothing but look on, and try to comfort the tweenager with his presence. It tore at his heart to see Frodo like this. It had been over ten years since his parents died in a boating accident on the Brandywine River, but Frodo's pain was still as fresh as if it had happened only six months ago.  
  
"Shh now, I'm here Frodo…" Bilbo soothed, gathering Frodo into his arms as the young hobbit began to cry. "We don't have to talk about this right now if it grieves you too greatly." He whispered.  
  
After Frodo had calmed down and began to relax again, Bilbo spoke up, "Would you like a little something to eat, Frodo?" he inquired, "Perhaps some bread left from dinner, and I've a little butter and jam we can put on it if you like…" He finished, still rubbing Frodo's back.  
  
The tweenager just shook his head and politely declined, "No thank you, Bilbo. 'Tis kind of you to offer, but I am not hungry."  
  
Bilbo sighed inwardly; he did wish that his nephew would eat more. He was a small lad for his age, and not nearly thick enough around the middle by hobbit standards. "But," Bilbo reminded himself, "He is young yet, he's got plenty of time to grow…" the old hobbit smiled to himself, "Alright then… do you think you're ready to go back to sleep now, Frodo? The storm looks to have passed… But I'll gladly stay with you if you wish it of me." Bilbo smiled, sitting Frodo up in his lap.  
  
"Yes Bilbo, I am very tired." Frodo yawned, "I believe I will go back to sleep now, though I would very much appreciate it if you stayed with me." Frodo looked at his uncle pleadingly.  
  
"Of course I will, dear Frodo." Bilbo assured him, wiping the last of the tears from his nephews face.  
  
Bilbo helped Frodo back into bed, and tucked the covers closely around him, kissing him on the forehead before moving back to the chair to go to sleep.  
  
"Bilbo?" Frodo's small voice broke the silence that had settled heavily in the dark room.  
  
"What is it?" Bilbo whispered back.  
  
"I'm sorry…" The younger hobbit spoke quietly.  
  
Bilbo sat up in his chair, looking over towards the bed to find Frodo's face turned to him. "Whatever for, Frodo?"  
  
"Everything. Being such a bother all the time, keeping you awake with my nightmares. Being different from other hobbit-lads my age… I'm sorry." Frodo finished quietly, looking at the ceiling.  
  
"Oh, no Frodo!" Bilbo exclaimed, louder than he meant to, "No…no, you must not ever think such things." He continued, returning his voice to a whisper as he walked over to Frodo's bedside once more. "Frodo, you are the most important and wonderful thing that has ever happened to me, and I mean every word of it." Bilbo smiled, "You must believe me when I tell you that I am truly happy to have you in my life."  
  
Frodo turned once more to look at his uncle, "What about your adventures, Bilbo?"  
  
Bilbo couldn't help but look a little surprised at that remark, "My adventures? Frodo, dear, I care for you far more than any adventure that I've ever been on or ever could have been on…" he smiled, "You bring me greater joy and wealth than any adventure or treasure could ever dream of." the old hobbit finished. "Now, we must get some sleep or neither of us will want to wake up in the morning! We've still got a lot of work to do in preparation for that party of ours." Bilbo laughed quietly, squeezing Frodo's hand gently.  
  
"Yes, uncle Bilbo." Frodo smiled, squeezing his uncles' hand in return before turning over and going to sleep. "And you bring me more happiness than you will ever know, Bilbo, you saved me." Frodo whispered just before drifting off. He had failed to mention the slight pain that had just begun to develop in his stomach, dismissing it as nerves. After all, it was nothing that wouldn't wait until morning.  
  
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A/N: Thanks for reading! Please review. :) I know this is slow moving, but the entire fic takes place over about three days, so I can't move too fast. :) Things really get going in the next chapter though. 


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks for all of the lovely reviews! :) I'm glad you're all enjoying the fic.  
  
Katrine, thank you so much for your help! I had never even thought about using the ID numbers instead of pennames. :) I'm definitely going to take some time today and add people to my list. :)  
  
I'm going to try to finish chapter 15 of "And In The Darkness Bind Him" and have it ready to upload sometime tomorrow. I've been working more on this fic lately for some reason; it seems easier to write. :) But I do want to get the other one finished soon.  
  
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Chapter 3:  
  
Frodo woke with the late-morning suns' rays in his eyes. The storm had left cloudless, blue September skies in its wake; he could smell the freshness of the breeze coming in through a raised window on the other side of his room. Frodo paid little heed to the weather; he was alarmed to find that the pain in his stomach had increased a great deal since its beginnings the night before. Though it was not unbearable, it certainly put a damper on ones spirits.  
  
He struggled out of bed, slowly making his way over to the tall wardrobe in the corner of his bedroom. Frodo pulled the solid wood doors open and began searching for something decent to wear to Elevensies.  
  
With trembling hands he hurried to fasten the brass clasps on his white blouse. Next he selected a bright green vest, with fine gold trim, to wear over top of it, and a nice pair of brown trousers. But Frodo's mind was on none of it; his only objective at the moment was to try to find some way to ease his pain- which didn't include the twisting of his sore middle, every which way, during the process of getting dressed.  
  
"I'll tell Bilbo…" Frodo thought anxiously as he opened the bedroom door and headed towards the kitchen, "Bilbo will send for a healer. The healer will be able to help." He rationalized.  
  
The smells that emanated from Bag End's kitchen made Frodo's upset stomach lurch, and he thought that he would surely be ill before he reached Bilbo. He paused in the hall, slightly hunched over, trying to ease the ache in his belly and calm his rebellious stomach.  
  
At last he resumed, his unsteady legs carrying him the last few feet around the corner, and into the kitchen where his uncle was cooking.  
  
At first, Bilbo was unaware of Frodo's presence. Frodo was glad of that, as he felt sure that his undignified walk and awkward posture would have alarmed his uncle. He meant to tell Bilbo of his discomfort, just not in such a way as to frighten the poor old hobbit.  
  
Frodo quietly pulled a chair from beneath the table, and took a seat in it. The position it put him in wasn't terribly comfortable, but it was better than standing up; yet, not as comfortable as lying down on a soft bed.  
  
Bilbo turned away from the cooking stove with a plate of fresh, still sizzling, bacon. "Oh! Good morning- or should I say, almost-afternoon?" he chuckled, "I trust you slept well Frodo, after you got back to sleep, that is?"  
  
Frodo sat in his chair, trying not to gag over the smell of bacon. He tried his best to be sociable, though he didn't feel the part. "Yes, Bilbo. Thank you for staying with me last night." He forced a smile. "I'm sorry to have kept you in the chair all night… I suppose it is terribly immature of me to ask such things of you." Frodo ended, sheepishly. "After all, I am nearly a grown hobbit…" he added.  
  
"Oh nonsense! I don't mind at all, Frodo." The old hobbit smiled lovingly at the tweenager. "Enough talk, how about some breakfast?" he inquired, "You must be famished, seeing as how you missed both Breakfasts'!" Bilbo placed a plate in front of Frodo, "…Though I thought it best to let you sleep late this morning. You were awake for a good while last night. I don't want you to wear yourself down." He finished, setting a bowl of apple flavored oatmeal beside the plate.  
  
"Actually," Frodo managed, "I- I'm not hungry at all." He folded his hands in his lap, "I don't believe I could eat anything if my life depended on it!" Frodo jested, trying not to appear too out of sorts. He intended on telling Bilbo about his pain, but not while they were eating. That would have been inappropriate and selfish, he thought. "Have you any tea, Bilbo?" Frodo looked up to find his uncle regarding him seriously. Frodo smiled weakly.  
  
"Are you feeling well, Frodo?" Bilbo questioned, "You look a bit pale… you looked it last night too." He put the back of a cool hand on Frodo's warm forehead. "Ah, and you're a mite bit warm as well I see." Bilbo had that tone in his voice. He wasn't going to take no for an answer. "Should I send for a healer?"  
  
"No." Frodo tried, "I feel all right, uncle. You go ahead and eat. I'm going to get a bit of fresh air now." He smiled, and stood up from the table, nearly falling in the process. "I'll just be out front," Frodo struggled to regain his balance, looking pleadingly into his uncles' face.  
  
Bilbo shot Frodo a stern glance, "Now you listen here, Frodo Baggins." He began, trying not to use too harsh a tone on his nephew. "I do wish to eat some of this food I've cooked. Only a little of it…you may go out to the front door for a few minutes. But not out of my sight, mind you!" he raised his voice at the last statement, emphasizing his point. "As soon as I'm done, I will send for the healer." Bilbo noticed Frodo favoring his middle, and the way he walked, how he had almost fallen… it was no good.  
  
Frodo felt both relieved and worried at the same time. "Yes Bilbo." He smiled, turning to leave. He was relieved that Bilbo would send for a healer. But what would the healer say? Of course, it couldn't be avoided; he would have to find out what ailed him eventually. And, perhaps worse, accept whatever treatment was suggested.  
  
Frodo made it no further than a few steps before his knees buckled. He gave a cry and fell to the floor, reaching his arms out to meet it. Before he could stop himself, he felt his dinner from the previous night rising in his throat. He sat back on his heels and clutched his stomach, in a weak attempt to keep the pain at bay.  
  
Bilbo had seen Frodo fall and jumped out of his seat, reaching the tweenager's side just as he began to be sick. "Easy now, Frodo." Bilbo shushed the sick little hobbit, rubbing his back as he heaved. "I'm here…it's alright. Shh…" He soothed gently.  
  
When the vomiting had passed, Frodo leaned forward gasping for breath, not caring that he put his hands down in his own dinner. The throbbing that had been ignited in his abdomen as a result of the vomiting made him want to scream. "It hurts…hurts, so much. So much." He cried out to Bilbo, rocking back and forth as he tried to cope with the pain.  
  
Bilbo was terrified. The lad had looked sickly at a few minutes ago, but Bilbo had never expected this. "What hurts, Frodo?" he asked anxiously, "Where does it hurt? Please, tell me, I promise I'll try to help…" he pleaded.  
  
Frodo shook his head, "My stomach hurts." He gasped, tears streaming down his cheeks as the pain flared, "Hurts so much…please help me, Bilbo."  
  
"Wait here Frodo," Bilbo spoke urgently.  
  
Frodo nodded, and stayed where he was.  
  
Bilbo dashed to his study and picked up a piece of scrap paper, scrawling a message on it for the healer. He flew out of his front door, with the message, down Bagshot Row to the Gamgee residence. The Gamgee's eldest son, Hamson, ran the message to the nearest healers' residence while Bilbo returned home to care for Frodo.  
  
Bilbo walked back into his hole, and then to the kitchen. Frodo was not where he left him. Fear seized Bilbo's heart as his mind began to race. He ran from room to room, searching for his sick nephew. Finally, Bilbo found Frodo. He was in his own bedroom, lying curled up on the bed. His dark curls were plastered to his pale sweat-coated face.  
  
Bilbo walked to Frodo's bedside, kneeling so he could see eye-to-eye with the tweenager. "Is the pain any better, Frodo?" the old hobbit asked gently, stroking the damp curls from the young hobbits' eyes.  
  
Frodo didn't answer; he just shrugged, and shook his head, not really giving a yes or no answer.  
  
"Just try to rest, lad. I've sent for a healer, he should be here soon." Bilbo continued, putting a hand to Frodo's cheek once more. "Excuse me for a minute." The old hobbit added as he moved away from the bed and turned out of Frodo's room, heading for the kitchen.  
  
He had to get out of Frodo's bedroom; it pained the old hobbit to see his nephew suffering when there was nothing he could to do help. Bilbo busied himself by cleaning up the vomit on the kitchen floor. Next he gathered fresh water and towels to clean Frodo up a little before the healer arrived. He set a kettle of water on to boil, and gathered the appropriate herbs for a nice calming tea.  
  
"Why didn't he tell me before?" Bilbo wondered aloud as he waited for the water to boil. He had to remind himself that for the past ten years, Frodo hadn't had much coddling. The hobbit-lad simply dealt with whatever was wrong, until he could handle it no more, and was forced to find an aunt or uncle to help him with his problem. Bilbo realized that it wasn't Frodo's fault that he hadn't told him about his illness, it was simply the way he had lived for almost half of his young life. Bilbo sighed, he wasn't angry at the tweenager, he was more worried than anything; he only wished that Frodo didn't have to make things so difficult. He wondered how long his nephew had been keeping this from him.  
  
Bilbo gathered the water, towels, and tea; and hastened back to Frodo's bedroom.  
  
Frodo had turned over to lie on his back, one hand resting lightly on his sore tummy; his breathing was almost at a normal rate once more. It appeared as if nothing was wrong, save for the pained expression that still haunted his weary face.  
  
The tweenager turned his head towards the door upon hearing Bilbo enter the room. He tried to smile at his uncle reassuringly, letting him know that he would be all right. Bilbo did not return the gesture though; he was far too worried.  
  
"How are you feeling, Frodo?" Bilbo asked, getting to the point.  
  
Frodo thought about it for a moment, choosing his words carefully, "It's a little better, Bilbo. When I got sick in the kitchen earlier it made the pain worse… But I feel better now, thank you." He lied.  
  
"How long has this been going on?" Bilbo sighed, "When did you first notice it?"  
  
"Last night." Frodo stated.  
  
"Why didn't you tell me then, Frodo?" Bilbo nearly demanded, "I could have sent for a healer-"  
  
"In the middle of the night?" Frodo interrupted coolly. "No Bilbo, it was hardly noticeable last night. There was no need to trouble you over it." Frodo explained, "I blamed it on my nerves. It wasn't until this morning that it caused me any real pain." He pointed out.  
  
Bilbo nodded slowly, still not completely believing his nephew, "Alright then, lad, let's get you cleaned up before the healer arrives. We don't want him to find you in this mess." Bilbo smiled slightly.  
  
"Yes, I know." Frodo realized that he was still wearing the soiled clothes from his earlier ordeal, and his hands and face needed washing. The whole of him could use a bath though, he thought.  
  
Bilbo approached the bed, pulling over a chair to put the pan of water on, and drape the spare towels over. "Now then, if you will just get out of those dirty clothes, I'll fetch you a clean nightshirt, Frodo." Bilbo offered.  
  
Frodo cringed visibly at the thought of having to undress again and move about too much. But nonetheless he began undressing himself while Bilbo went to the wardrobe to fetch clean clothes.  
  
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A/N: As always, thank you so much for reading! :) Please review! 


	4. Chapter 4

Bilbo sat quietly by Frodo's bed, reading while he waited for the healer to arrive. It was nearly 1:00 in the afternoon and Fosco Fields, the most prominent healer in Hobbiton, still hadn't arrived. Bilbo had stressed the urgency of the situation in his message, so no doubt it was something serious that was keeping Mr. Fields.  
  
Frodo was growing restless, and Bilbo was becoming more and more concerned for his nephews' well being. Blue skies visible through the windows made it all the harder for Frodo to sit inside feeling wretched. He wished he felt well enough to be out of doors, or perhaps at his desk finishing arranging the party affairs.  
  
"Bilbo?" Frodo whispered quietly, reaching a small hand out, seeking his uncles' larger one.  
  
"I'm here, Frodo." Bilbo replied, taking Frodo's clammy palm into his own, "Just rest for a little while longer, the healer will be here soon enough…" the old hobbit tried to smile reassuringly through his own anxiety.  
  
Frodo swallowed, shifting uneasily beneath the covers, "No Bilbo, I…it's just that it's… starting to get worse." He closed his eyes tightly, sucking in a sharp breath as knives of pain tore at his middle. He placed a hand lightly over the area around his bellybutton, as if by doing so he could block out the pain.  
  
"I'm sorry, lad." Bilbo shook his head, looking down pityingly at the suffering tweenager, stroking Frodo's hand with his own. He tried to offer as much comfort as he could. Bilbo rose carefully from his chair, squeezing Frodo's hand gently. He then walked to the other side of the bedroom, gathering a face cloth, soaking it in a basin of cool water, and wringing it out before returning to Frodo's side.  
  
"Here now," the old hobbit soothed, wiping the thin layer of sweat from Frodo's pale face. "Doesn't that feel better?" he tried his best to sound hopeful.  
  
Frodo slowly shook his head yes, "It's not so bad if…if I hold really still," he said, "I feel sick again though, Bilbo." He whimpered, trying to focus on not making another mess for his uncle to have to clean up. "Stop, please" he begged, his voice faltering as he pushed Bilbo's hand away from his face. "I just need…I need t- to get comfortable." He murmured, turning over and curling up on his side.  
  
Bilbo found it disheartening that a motion as simple as turning over in bed seemed to cause Frodo such effort, it must have, for he was breathing heavily and sweating as though he had been running. "What's wrong, Frodo?" Bilbo asked gently, though he already knew what the answer would be; but he felt that the question ought to be asked in any case.  
  
A choked "Hurts." was the only answer Frodo provided, curling up even more and gripping the edge of his feather bolster tightly as sharp pains continued to shoot through the sore area of his abdomen with even the slightest movement.  
  
Bilbo nearly began to cry at the sight of his dear nephew so ill. He ran a hand slowly through Frodo's damp hair, feeling tears run down his own face as he did so. They fell slowly at first, and then faster, just as Frodo's shallow breaths came faster while he fought a losing battle with the pain.  
  
Bilbo's tears fell to make large wet splotches on his light-brown trousers, like rain from an unexpected summer shower dampening brown earth.  
  
Frodo cried out to Bilbo when he could no longer bear the increasing ache in silence, "Bilbo," he whimpered, the anguish he felt was reflected clearly in his voice, and he reached for his uncle, "It hurts…"  
  
"It'll be all right, Frodo." Bilbo assured his nephew, smoothing his damp curls back.  
  
A series of quick raps on the front door roused Bilbo from his mournful state. He wiped his sleeves across his face to hide the fact that he had been crying, and leapt up from his place by Frodo's side, running for the door.  
  
When Bilbo got to the door, a rather disheveled Mr. Fields greeted him. "Hello Mr. Baggins!" the healer puffed, pushing his way through the open door. Fosco Fields was a hobbit of considerable girth, and quite tall as well, making him appear rather intimidating upon first sight.  
  
"Please, come in!" Bilbo offered, moving aside to avoid being trampled. "Let me take your coat," he hung Mr. Fields' large coat on one of the pegs behind the door.  
  
"I'm truly sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Baggins. I got word at the last minute that little Daisy Boffin, you know, Lyra and Mardus' youngest, climbed up the chimney after a bird, and fell off." He rambled, wiping his muddy feet on the rug. "And then she rolled all the way down their smial and bumped right into a tree!"  
  
Bilbo stood by, waiting patiently, though he desperately wished that the healer would get on with things. "Oh, how terrible!" he exclaimed with forced enthusiasm, turning to go down the hall, hoping that Mr. Fields would follow his lead.  
  
"She is all right, just got a few nasty bumps." He sighed, "Though, 'tis nothing time won't mend."  
  
"Yes, of course, Mr. Fields," Bilbo interjected, "Now, if you will, my lad's room is this way." He walked hastily down the corridor.  
  
"Ah, yes! Forgive my incessant ramblings, Mr. Baggins. How has the dear boy been lately?" The healer asked earnestly, hurrying to catch up with Bilbo.  
  
"Oh, he's been well, save for this illness that seems to have come upon him suddenly." Bilbo answered, "He's terribly excited about the birthday party. I've tried not to allow him to work himself too hard, there's still so much to be done though…"  
  
"I'm sure of that!" Mr. Fields smiled, "I trust I'll be getting an invitation soon then?" he jested.  
  
"Of course," Bilbo replied, smiling.  
  
"So, what exactly is it that I'm seein' him today for?" Fosco asked curiously, "You never were clear about it in your message…"  
  
"Well," Bilbo began, "To tell you the truth, I'm not entirely sure myself. He told me this morning that pain had started in his stomach last night, just a wee bit." He avoided mentioning Frodo's nightmare about his parents and how he sat up with him all night. Bilbo paused, thinking back to the days' earlier events, "Then this morning, I noticed that he looked a bit pale at Elevensies- he slept late, you know, so he missed both Breakfast's. He got up from the table to go get some fresh air, but he only got a few feet before he collapsed, then he was sick on his stomach straight away. He says the ache in his stomach is growing worse...the poor thing looks to be in quite a bit of pain this afternoon." Bilbo shook his head, "'Tis strange, I believe. Very sudden. Even just as of last night the boy had an appetite and appeared to be feeling well."  
  
Before the healer had a chance to answer, Bilbo opened Frodo's bedroom door and both hobbits entered the room quietly. Fosco walked over to the tweenagers' bed, feeling Frodo's brow with the back of his hand, noting the warmness of it.  
  
Frodo was still lying curled up on his side, his eyes half closed, and beads of sweat accumulating on his pale face.  
  
"I heard you're not feeling well today, Master Baggins." The healer declared, setting his bag of medical instruments down on the corner of the bed.  
  
"How do you feel, Frodo?" The healer inquired after a few moments of silence.  
  
"Bad," Frodo breathed.  
  
"I'm sorry to hear that, lad," Mr. Fields replied, "Now, would you mind telling me where it hurts?"  
  
"My stomach hurts a lot." Frodo blurted, an impatient tone to his voice, muffled through the bedding that he was huddled under. "And I feel like I'm going to throw up again."  
  
"Alright then, no need to be hasty… Where exactly on your stomach does it hurt?" Mr. Fields asked.  
  
"Mostly right here," Frodo gestured to a place below, just to the right, of his bellybutton. "It was up here," he said, moving a small hand up to rest above where his bellybutton was, "And it hurts worse when I move, or if I take a deep breath." He added.  
  
"I see…" A wave of concern passed over Mr. Fields face as he pondered the situation, it soon passed and he was ready to begin his examination, "Now, if you'll just turn over on your back so I can take a look at you…" the healer suggested.  
  
Frodo whimpered, curling up tighter, "No…no I- I can't, it hurts so much." He begged weakly.  
  
Mr. Fields sighed, beginning to force Frodo's knees gently into a straight position so he could roll him onto his back, "Now, lad, if you don't let me look at you then how will I be able to tell what's wrong?" he pointed out.  
  
Frodo thought about it for a moment, looking pleadingly in Bilbo's direction, seeking an escape, before he finally complied, carefully turning himself over. He groaned, immediately trying to turn back onto his side as he felt the pain in his abdomen intensify as a result of trying to lie flat on his back.  
  
Gentle hands forced him back down, holding him in place, "Just wait a minute now, lad, give me a moment. I'll be done soon, if you just hold still." The healer promised.  
  
Mr. Fields then began gently prodding Frodo's middle, hoping that by doing so he would be able to discover the root of the problem. Or at least, he thought, get an idea of what the problem might be.  
  
Frodo howled in pain as the healers' hands approached the sore area of his stomach. His hand shot up seemingly involuntarily, seizing Mr. Fields' arm with a surprisingly strong grip. Frodo forced the arm away from his stomach, tears building in his eyes, and he turned back onto his side in an attempt to ease the pain.  
  
Bilbo rushed to his nephews' side, wiping Frodo's tears away with the corner of his own shirt. "Shh… There, there lad, easy now. I know it hurts..." He soothed.  
  
Frodo jerked slightly, clamping his mouth shut as he tried to avoid being sick. But it was no use, before he knew what was happening, he felt Bilbo holding his head back as he retched, messing up his bedclothes and Bilbo's pants.  
  
When it was over he lay on his side, rocking and clutching his stomach. He didn't know who was standing over him, or what they were saying. As hard as Frodo tried, he couldn't focus on anything through the pain, all he could hear were his own pitiful cries echoing in his ears.  
  
"Just give him a moment to recover, Mr. Fields." Bilbo requested, his voice shaky as he gathered fresh towels to clean up the mess.  
  
The healer nodded, a little taken aback by Frodo's actions. Then he gently lifted the tweenager from the soiled bedding, ignoring Frodo's cries of protest, "It's alright, little one," he soothed, carrying the trembling young hobbit across the room and settling him in a large chair.  
  
Soon Bilbo was done changing the bedding, had gotten Frodo a clean nightshirt, and put the sick hobbit back to bed. The room was silent once more, save for Frodo's heavy breathing, and the noise of birds that could be heard chirping outside.  
  
The cheerful noises almost seemed to transform into cruel, mocking laughs to Frodo's ears, how could they all be so happy, going about their day, when he was suffering so? Mr. Fields returned to his place by Frodo's bed, "Frodo?" he asked.  
  
Frodo opened his eyes partially, acknowledging the healers presence.  
  
"Your uncle tells me that you first started feeling poorly last night." Mr. Fields stated, "Did you also feel sick to your stomach last night, or did that just start this morning?"  
  
"It just started this morning, when I woke up." Frodo answered.  
  
"Ah, well then," Mr. Fields began, a slight hint of concern detectable in his voice, though the whole situation still perplexed him. He turned towards Bilbo, "Mr. Baggins, it appears as though your lad has got a rather bad case of what's been going around with tweenager's this fall. Though, he may be in for a rougher go of it than most," He continued slowly, "'Tis nothing too serious. Just make sure the boy gets plenty of rest, and lots of liquids." The healer finished, turning towards Frodo, "And you, lad, must put aside your party planning, for the time being."  
  
"But…" Frodo protested weakly, "There is so much that is left to be done. How will it ever be finished if I am not able to help?" he worried.  
  
"Now, Frodo, what kind of party would it be if you were too ill to attend? Bilbo will see to it that everything gets done, don't worry." he smiled. "I fully expect to see you there with a good appetite and rosy cheeks. You be a good lad now, and cooperate for your uncle Bilbo." Mr. Fields ended, turning back to face the older hobbit.  
  
Frodo was relieved that he had been told to rest, he hardly felt like dealing with guest lists, gifts, and menus.  
  
Mr. Fields and Bilbo turned away from the bed and walked to the other side of Frodo's room, speaking in hushed voices, "Well, Mr. Baggins, he ought to be back on his feet in a week or so. Though I'd not seen such severe symptoms accompanying this illness until now." He spoke gravely. Mr. Fields paused, turning around to look at Frodo, "You must send me word if he grows worse, especially if he is terribly worse by tomorrow morning," He continued, "If he refuses liquids, or the pain in his stomach increases drastically, and if his fever shoots up higher than it is now."  
  
Bilbo listened closely, unable to speak, his eyes wide with fear.  
  
"Oh, no Mr. Baggins, do not worry yourself too much about it." Mr. Fields tried to reassure Bilbo, "Believe me, the lad will let you know, voluntarily or not, if you need to send for me again; and the chances of it being necessary are very small." He assured Bilbo, "But remember, be sure that Frodo takes plenty of liquids, and stays in bed." The healer directed, "And," he added, digging in his bag, "Let him take this as needed, for vomiting." he produced a small bottle of clear liquid. "I don't want to give any medication for the pain right now, because he needs to be aware of himself. I don't want to inadvertently mask symptoms that may accompany the onset of a more serious illness."  
  
Bilbo nodded vigorously, "Yes, of course, Mr. Fields," he said, "and thank you ever so much for coming!" he began escorting the healer to the foyer, retrieving Mr. Fields' large coat from a peg behind the door.  
  
"'Tis nothing, Mr. Baggins," Mr. Fields assured Bilbo, "I love the boy, I have a soft spot for him…knowing all that he's been through… what, with losing his parents and all, and at such a young age too. The poor lad." He commented as he began pulling on his coat. "Coming at a moments notice is never a problem. And remember, do send for me if the need should arise." He shot a knowing glance to Bilbo. He was terribly concerned for Frodo's well being. In truth, he did not really believe that what Frodo had was actually what was going around. Though the illness appeared to be fairly typical, his instincts told him that it might be something more serious.  
  
"I won't hesitate to send word," Bilbo smiled, "Have a safe trip home!" 


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I own nothing! :)  
  
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Chapter 5:  
  
After seeing Mr. Fields off, Bilbo returned to Frodo's room as quickly as he could manage. He was relieved that the healer had come and gone, diagnosing Frodo's illness as nothing more than a stomach flu that was making its rounds, as similar ailments did every fall. Bilbo believed that this annual phenomenon had something to do with the change in the weather, the transition from summer to fall. Though, the cautionary statements that Mr. Fields had left him with were unsettling to Bilbo; and a fear of the worst-case scenario had begun to rise in the back of his mind.  
  
The tweenager was still lying on his side, one arm hugging the affected area of his stomach, his eyes partially closed. "Now, Frodo," Bilbo began quietly, in his hands he held the small bottle that the healer had left, plus a spoon for taking the medicine, "This will keep you from being sick again." He said, removing the lid of the bottle and getting ready to pour some of the clear liquid into the spoon.  
  
Frodo opened his eyes and struggled to focus on his uncle, "I don't want any, Bilbo." He protested.  
  
"Come now; remember what the healer said. You mind me, and you'll be as good as new come next week." Bilbo promised, smiling. "Now just sit up a little so you don't choke on this."  
  
Frodo squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head slightly, "No Bilbo. I can't. manage sitting up. It hurts too badly to do anything other than lie here." He pleaded.  
  
"I know lad." Bilbo soothed, putting the medicine down on Frodo's nightstand and rubbing the tweenager's back gently. "It will just take a moment though, and then soon you will feel much better."  
  
Frodo made no response, though he silently doubted that Bilbo `knew' how he felt, and he showed no sign of obeying.  
  
"Frodo, don't make this harder than it has to be." Bilbo said, a tone of warning to his quiet voice. Inwardly he felt terrible about it. He thought that surely Frodo must think him the cruelest being on Middle-Earth, forcing him to move when he was in such pain and movement only caused the pain to escalate. But Bilbo realized that it couldn't be  
  
helped, and the effects of the medicine would hopefully prove to be worth causing Frodo a few extra moments of discomfort.  
  
"Frodo-" he began again.  
  
"Alright!" Frodo resigned, his voice coming out a little harsher than he meant. Needless to say, he wasn't in the best of moods. "Please help me to sit up, Bilbo." He murmured, avoiding his uncles' eyes.  
  
Bilbo nodded, carefully slipping one hand beneath the tweenager's shoulders for support, and using the other to pull him up. Frodo was unable to stifle his cries as Bilbo continued hoisting him into a semi-reclining position. Frodo felt so childish about the whole situation. Upon hearing Frodo's cries, Bilbo almost gave up several times, not wishing to hurt his nephew.  
  
When Bilbo was done moving him, Frodo was still positioned on his left side, but propped up in bed so that he could swallow the medicine easily. The young hobbit blinked back tears of pain, holding one hand up, signaling that he needed a few moments to recover from the ordeal, the other hand still lingered defensively around the area  
  
of his belly where the pain was greatest.  
  
Bilbo nodded once more, retrieving a wet facecloth and wiping the sweat from Frodo's damp features while he allowed the tweenager time to catch his breath.  
  
Frodo was eager to take the medicine so that he could lie down once more. After a few moments he gestured to Bilbo, beckoning him to his bedside.  
  
"Alright, lad, I'm not sure how this will taste, but you have to try to keep it down." Bilbo spoke, kneeling beside Frodo's bed, smoothing damp curls from the young hobbits eyes, "Unfortunately it will not help with the pain, but it should prevent you from being sick on your stomach if you can manage to take it every few hours." he added, pouring a spoonful of medicine.  
  
In his semi-conscious state, Frodo had heard little of what Bilbo said, but he was eager to try anything that may help. He was still feeling quite nauseated, and dreaded vomiting again due to the unbearable waves of pain, set off by the motion of heaving, that it sent shooting through his abdomen. "Alright, Bilbo.I'm ready to try some now." He gave his consent, his voice barely above a whisper.  
  
Before Bilbo could put the spoon of medicine to Frodo's lips, the tweenager groaned loudly and bent inward as far as he could, trying to ease the sudden spasm pain that held him in its grips. It felt as though a knife was being driven into his belly, and slowly twisted while being forced deeper.  
  
Bilbo could do nothing but stand by and try to offer comfort. He placed a hand on Frodo's shoulder, patting it reassuringly and whispering words of comfort into his nephews' small ear. He could feel Frodo's body stiffen beneath his hands as the young hobbit tried desperately to bear the pain in silence. But it soon became too much, and Frodo turned his face into his pillow, pressing into it as hard as he was able, and let out heart wrenching cries of anguish as they rose in his throat. He didn't want Bilbo to hear; and he thought, as a last resort, that he would at least try stifling them so as not to alarm his uncle.  
  
Bilbo bit back his own cries, of surprise and fear, as he heard the muffled screams, which were hardly muted by Frodo's pillow. He was rendered speechless by his nephews' sudden turn for the worse. The old hobbit felt himself shaking from fear, and he had to set the bottle of medicine down to avoid spilling it.  
  
Eventually Frodo's cries were reduced to quiet sobs, and he removed his face from the pillow as he attempted to sit up in bed long enough to take the medicine. He opened his eyes to find Bilbo peering down at him, a look of grave concern on his face.  
  
To Bilbo, Frodo's pale face looked like a field of snow, wet and glistening in the morning sun. His bright-blue, tear-filled eyes like two sapphires cast out into the middle of the field.  
  
"Bilbo, it's hot." Frodo moaned, letting his head fall back heavily onto the pillow, "It's so hot, I don't know why...I don't know what's wrong with me, Bilbo." He carried on, his voice faltering. He was clearly confused and dreadfully frightened about what had just  
  
happened. He probed his stomach gingerly with two small hands, touching the backs of them to his belly as he tried to gauge the temperature of it.  
  
Bilbo shook his head, leaning in closer to his nephew, "I don't understand, Frodo. What's hot?" he asked, placing a hand on the tweenagers damp forehead and finding it to be almost the same temperature as it had been earlier, "You don't have very much of a  
  
fever, lad. Where is it hot?" Bilbo persisted.  
  
Frodo shook his head, "My stomach, Bilbo, my stomach feels so hot.oh and it hurts so much." He cried, a hint of panic evident in his voice. "No! Oh No, Bilbo. please. Please don't touch it. It hurts terribly when someone touches me there." Frodo begged, folding his arms over his abdomen defensively, effectively preventing Bilbo's hands from making contact with his sore belly. The agonizing pain that tortured him was unlike any other he had felt, it bore no similarities to previous stomach flu's that he had fallen ill with.  
  
Though, he trusted the healer; knowing that Mr. Fields was well learned, a seasoned healer, and able to offer an objective point of view on the matter.  
  
"Alright now, lad, I didn't know." Bilbo apologized, "I won't touch you anywhere that causes you pain." He soothed, trying to hide his concern so as not to panic Frodo. He picked up the bottle of medicine and the spoon; "Let's get this medicine in you, Frodo, before anything else happens."  
  
Frodo nodded in agreement, he was ready to get it over with so that he could lie still once more. The medicine wasn't nearly as bad as he feared it would be. It wasn't exactly what one would call pleasant, but it wasn't bitter- nor was it too sweet.  
  
"I'll be back in a moment, Frodo," Bilbo promised, "Mr. Fields said you need to take as many liquids as you can, so I'm going to go see to it that there are plenty liquids for the taking!" He smiled, patting Frodo's head fondly as he turned to leave, "If you need  
  
anything at all just call for me."  
  
Frodo then found himself alone in his room. The sun was well on its way to setting, though a few hours of daylight remained. Shadows grew long on his bedroom walls, little patches of darkness seeping in ahead of blackness, small envoys of the night. The daytime noises of birds, and the usual busy noises of Hobbiton's inhabitants as they  
  
went about their day, were gradually winding down and being replaced by the serene evening sounds of crickets chirping and bullfrogs croaking, singing the last of their summer songs before the chill of fall arrived to drive them away. He could hear noises from the kitchen, though they seemed far off. Frodo's room itself was silent, save for the quiet noises of his hitched breathing. He felt detached from the world, despondent even. This illness that was consuming him had drained his energy with surprising speed, and he had grown so weary of fighting the pain and trying to be brave.  
  
As Frodo lay there alone in bed, the tweenager's mind soon began to wander, and he thought back on his childhood. He wondered if the instability and sorrow that had been such a large part of his young life thus far, was foreshadowing how the rest of his years would play out. Though at the moment he hardly thought that he had any years left, as terrible as he felt, he thought sure that he would soon draw his last breath. Such morbid thoughts led him to think of his own mortality. It was commonly known that most hobbit lads and lasses of his age did not contemplate such things. To them Middle-Earth, and  
  
all it had to offer, was a banquet, and they its guests of honor. Many of them had never experienced loss or pain on any significant level. It never occurred to the youngsters just how swiftly life could dismiss them or those they cared for. Frodo had experienced it;  
  
long ago he had learned what a true loss felt like, and the emotional pain and turmoil that came along with it. It left him changed, whether it was for better or worse remained to be seen, because he was still so young, but he already showed signs of following a different path from others his age.  
  
He found strange comfort in his belief that if he were to die now then he would soon be reunited with the two people he loved and missed the most. Though he cared a great deal for his devoted, though sometimes overbearing, uncle Bilbo, he missed his parents terribly. He spoke of it only when grief overcame him and he couldn't remain  
  
silent on the matter without bursting. Frodo kept his silence for fear of seeming ungrateful to all of the people who had cared for him since his parents' passing. He wished so much that things could have been different, though he knew that wishing was folly and wouldn't change reality, no matter how much he wanted it to.  
  
Suddenly he whimpered, feeling the pain in his stomach begin to grow again. He swallowed hard as he felt waves of nausea overcome him, and he earnestly wished that the medicine would work faster. Frodo curled up as best he could, hugging his small knees to his chest, and tried to put his mind at ease while he waited for Bilbo to return.  
  
In the kitchen Bilbo stood, over his cooking stove, heating a small pot of broth. He stirred it absentmindedly, wondering if it was too soon to call Mr. Fields back to Bag End.  
  
He didn't want to appear panicky, but Bilbo didn't at all like the way things were looking. He had nursed Frodo through many a childhood illness over the years, and he had never seen the poor little hobbit-lad suffer so. Though Mr. Fields was a very respectable healer, Bilbo couldn't help but think that perhaps Fosco had made a mistake this time.  
  
He was roused from his thoughts as he realized that his fingers that held the spoon were burning. He immediately dropped the spoon, cursing himself for not paying attention. He sucked on his fingers, trying to relieve the pain. Bilbo shook his head as he removed the bubbling pot from the fire; it had become much too hot. Now it would have to cool before he could offer it to Frodo. He sat it on the windowsill, and opened the shutters, allowing the cool evening breeze to drift through, blowing about the billows of steam like stout winds filling a ships' sails.  
  
Bilbo looked out of the window, past the black hull of the pot with its steaming white sails, and off into the gentle landscape of the Shire with its rolling hills and small forests dotted with every shade of green, yellow, and even orange. He smiled, despite the heavy  
  
weight on his heart, and the fear that haunted his mind.  
  
At length, Bilbo tore his gaze away from the beauty of his homeland and resolved that if Frodo were any worse by morning, or if he woke up worse during the night, that he would use his best judgment and send for Mr. Fields without delay.  
  
He hastened to prepare various offerings of tea, juice, and cool, fresh water for what he thought would surely be Frodo's delight.  
  
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A/N: Ok, chapter 5 :) I've already posted this on the Yahoo group, but I wanted to give people here a chance to read it if they want to. Please let me know what you think! :) I'll try to post chapter 6 tomorrow! 


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Sorry I didn't upload this earlier! I've been busy all day and I hadn't had the time to do anything about it. :)  
  
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Chapter 6:  
  
Bilbo sat on the corner of Frodo's bed trying to coax him into drinking at least a small amount of the liquids that he had prepared. The curtains were drawn, keeping at bay most of the light that pounded brightly at the window.  
  
Another beautiful day had blessed the Shire with its warmth and clear skies. The enjoyable weather and comforting essence of fall was a stark contrast to the mood inside Bag End.  
  
"No, Bilbo.I- I'll be sick again.if I try to eat." Frodo whimpered, pushing the steaming cup of broth away.  
  
Bilbo sighed, barely masking a slight sob that somehow escaped him, "Oh please, Frodo?" he persisted, "Just take a little bit.the healer said it would help with the pain." He stroked the tweenagers damp curls soothingly; trying his best to comfort the small lad, despite the pain Frodo was in. "Frodo, do you recall the other night, when you asked me how I remained hidden on the barrels all the way to Dale?" he inquired absentmindedly. It didn't matter anymore whether or not he told Frodo about the Ring. "Might as well," Bilbo thought mournfully, "while there is still time." He blinked hard as unwelcome tears filled his eyes; he fought them fiercely, and had decided to stay strong for Frodo.  
  
The tweenager nodded, "Yes," he spoke quietly, "I remember, Bilbo" he finished, closing his eyes again. No hint of enthusiasm or curiosity was detectable in his weak voice.  
  
"Well, lad, since you're ill and stuck in doors, I thought it might make for a good story." The old hobbit tried a smile, hoping to see one grace Frodo's pale lips, just as his stories always had so many times before. Oh how he loved the lads' smile; it was the sun, where he was a berry that needed ripening. He would miss it so much. "Shall we, then?" he asked, fumbling with something in his pockets.  
  
Frodo nodded slowly, shifting beneath the blankets.  
  
Bilbo told the story of how the Ring came to him, not leaving any details out, and perhaps embellishing a little, hoping to get a rise out of his nephew. Though, he was blessed with no such luck, as Frodo's features remained stoic throughout the entirety of the tale.  
  
"Watch this now, Frodo," Bilbo smiled, his eyes dancing with mirth. "Surely this will pique his interest!" Bilbo thought to himself. "Watch closely, dear boy, it's easy to miss!" he laughed lightly, hiding his hands behind his back as he slipped the gold band onto his ring finger.  
  
Bilbo could hear a slight gasp escape Frodo, and the lad gave a cry of surprise, "Bilbo!" he called, "Bilbo, where did you go?" his eyes danced with fear, and his heart pounded heavily in his chest.  
  
"I'm here Frodo!" Bilbo announced triumphantly, pulling the ring from his finger and reappearing in front of his nephew's eyes. His smile and bravado faded as he caught the look of shock and startled surprise that still lingered heavily on Frodo's face. He realized then that this might not have been the best of times to tell such a story. But he remembered Fosco's words from earlier that morning when he had returned to see Frodo. The healer had taken Bilbo aside, and told the old hobbit what he dreaded hearing: Frodo would not recover from this illness. Fosco had been vague, not really saying what the illness actually *was*; just confirming that it was not treatable, nor was there any way he would be able to recover from it. Bilbo was distraught and terrified upon hearing the morbid news, yet he was determined to remain strong for Frodo, through it all, until the end, which he feared would come all too soon.  
  
Fosco had been so kind as to provide one last favor to the old bachelor and his dying tweenage nephew. He brought a small packet that contained a light- green powder. When mixed with water- or another suitable liquid, the powder would greatly reduce the severe pain that accompanied this ailment, which was unbearable in its latter stages, without something to numb it. The concoction made the patient drowsy, and eventually they slipped into a sleep from which they would not return. Taking the medicine shortened Frodo's dwindling hours, but it made them bearable for him, and Fosco had promised that the hobbit-lad would most likely be coherent to the end.  
  
Bilbo thought sure that nothing ever had, nor would anything ever pain him as greatly as this was now: Watching his dear, young nephew, all he had in the world as a son, waste away and perish before his very eyes. There was nothing he could do. At that moment he cursed the Creator under his breath. "Why?" Bilbo thought ruefully, "Why Frodo?" When Iluvatar had bestowed so many long, happy years of life upon Bilbo himself, why had he now chosen to take young Frodo? The hobbit-lad's life was just beginning; he hadn't a chance to explore even a tiny portion of his full potential. How cruel it was to tear apart the roots of a flower that was, at last, posed to blossom- even after it had endured and survived the harshest of beginnings and emerged whole! "Why was the seed ever planted at all?" Bilbo found himself wondering angrily, "And why has such strife befallen this gentle soul during his young years? Did he not deserve at least *some* happiness?" He could control his tears no longer, and he turned away from Frodo's still form, and wept bitterly. "This will be the end of me," Bilbo decided, "I cannot go on without him." Bilbo marveled at how he had lived the majority of his life as a solitary bachelor, and yet after this remarkable young hobbit had become a large part his life, he thought existence impossible without him.  
  
At length, he turned back to Frodo's bed, noticing that the gentle rise and fall of the boys' chest was absent. Bilbo cried out, taking one of Frodo's still, cooling hands into his own and kissing it. He stroked back the chilled sweat-soaked locks, for the last time, and felt the pale cheeks that were once, not too long ago, graced with a rosy pink from the suns kiss but now contained only the grayish hue of death.  
  
"Oh Frodo!" he wailed, "Poor, poor lad." Bilbo kissed the tweenagers small nose. He could feel his hands shaking violently as the full realization of what had happened began to sink in, "My dear child, why has this happened? I would have given the better portion of my years to ensure that you had another day." He sobbed. Bilbo was completely inconsolable, and knew that until the end of his numbered days, no one would ever be able to comfort him. "I will join you soon, my dear boy, I will see you again soon." He gasped, "Oh, soon Frodo! My poor dear boy!" he gathered Frodo's lifeless body into his arms, cringing at the cold feel of Frodo's still-damp nightshift.  
  
He was sure that all of the Shire, and perhaps the creature beneath the Misty Mountains, and the Elves in Rivendell, even the Men in Dale, could hear his sobs as he mourned his great loss. All he could hear were his own cries echoing in his ears. It seemed to him that the whole of Middle-Earth was crying for the loss of this child.  
  
**  
  
Bilbo was jolted from his sleep to find that the cries from his dream were, in fact, real and someone in the room was calling for him.  
  
"Bilbo!" Frodo cried, his small voice reaching out blindly into the darkness of the bedroom.  
  
The horrible memories from Bilbo's all-too-real nightmare came flooding back, and were immediately washed away in a flood of fear-tainted relief as he realized that the cries were those of his ill nephew.  
  
"Oh dear, Frodo, what is it, lad?" Bilbo answered, rising from his comfortable chair and stumbling through the darkness of Frodo's room, following the sounds of his nephew's cries. He finally reached Frodo's nightstand, lighting several more candles from the small one that he had kept burning throughout the night.  
  
In the glowing yellow candlelight Bilbo could see that Frodo had somehow managed to prop himself up on one shaky elbow, the other hand clutched about the area of his right hip. He leaned heavily over the side of the bed, almost to the point of falling off. Bilbo could see his bright-blue eyes glistening with unshed tears; dark circles brought on by his suffering and fatigue outlined them.  
  
"Bilbo," the tweenager panted, "Bilbo, I'm.going.. to be sick again, I think. I'm scared. I don't want t- to be alone when it happens." He whimpered, "I cannot bear it, it hurts terribly now, every moment. Laying still doesn't help anymore." The tears that his eyes held began to slide down his pale cheeks as he all but felt the bitter taste of bile rising in his throat, and he knew what would soon inevitably follow.  
  
Bilbo knelt beside the young hobbit, placing an empty pan beneath his chin. "'Tis all right, Frodo," he reassured his nephew, stroking Frodo's hair gently. "I'm here with you, just let it all come up now if you need to." He soothed, placing one hand on the tweenager's back, noting that the nightshirt was soaked through with Frodo's sweat; how hot the lads' body felt beneath his own cool hands alarmed him. Frodo's behavior was a reminder of how young the lad still was, though mature for his age, he was still a frightened child.  
  
Bilbo felt Frodo's body shudder as his small shoulders heaved, bringing up what little liquid was in the boys' stomach. He saw the agonized expression that passed over his fine features. Frodo reached for Bilbo's hand, just to have something to hold on to, hoping to distract himself from the pain. He gripped it tightly as another heave seized him, and he coughed on the bitter bile that it brought up as it burnt his throat, eliciting from him a sharp, strangled cry.  
  
"I'm so sorry, Frodo," Bilbo whispered, fighting a losing battle with his own tears. Though he knew that none of this was his fault, he still wished desperately that he could do something for the child. He had already resolved to send for Mr. Fields, as soon as Frodo would allow him to leave his side long enough to write a short note. Tomorrow was too long to wait, and Mr. Fields could lose a few hours of sleep if it meant that Bilbo wouldn't lose Frodo. "Hold on, lad, it'll be over soon." He promised, gently brushing loose tendrils of hair from the young hobbits eyes, and trying his best to keep Frodo's body still so as not to aggravate the tender area of his stomach.  
  
Frodo whimpered, and his body tensed once more. He leaned heavily into his uncles' arm, crying out in anguish as his stomach twisted and rebelled. He retched again, but the action brought forth no fluids, only excruciating pain. He gagged on his own spit as the heaves came faster and a horrible dull, popping noise filled the dense warm air of his dark bedroom, signifying that Frodo's stomach was completely empty.  
  
Bilbo spoke gently to the sick little tweenager, rubbing his back in slow circular motions. That was all he could do for Frodo, the lad must let the vomiting run its course before he could rest once more.  
  
At last Frodo's heaving ceased and he moaned loudly as the pain beset him anew. He immediately went limp, gasping for breath. The last spell had spent the remainder of his energy, and he collapsed back down onto his mattress, shaking violently.  
  
Bilbo was surprised when both of Frodo's small, trembling hands reached up, taking one of his larger ones and pulling it to his chest. He held his uncles hand there tightly, as if deriving some comfort from it. Bilbo was alarmed to feel the rapid fluttering of his nephew's heart through the sweat-soaked nightshift.  
  
Several minutes passed, and Frodo's breathing became more labored as another spasm of pain wrenched his tender belly. Frodo removed Bilbo's hand from his chest and pressed it firmly to his forehead. He cried out, and his right hand moved swiftly down to the painful area of his stomach, and he groped helplessly at the clothing that lay between his hand and his body, as if somehow by touching his abdomen that it would ease the pain. Bilbo could feel Frodo's warm, shallow breaths on the back of his hand, he winced as the tweenager pressed the hand as hard as he was able and held his breath, trying to get through a particularly bad spell of pain.  
  
"Bilbo!" Frodo wailed, "Bilbo, here, feel it," he offered, carefully guiding his uncle's hand down to his stomach, letting it rest lightly on his abdomen. Bilbo nearly jumped out of his skin at the feel of Frodo's belly.  
  
"Oh, Frodo!" Bilbo cried, his voice breaking as fear seized his entire being, "How long have you been like this?" he inquired, cupping Frodo's small, damp face in his hand.  
  
"I don't know, I woke up and it felt so much worse than before," Frodo whispered, swallowing hard as he forced himself to focus on his uncle, "Oh I'm going to die, Bilbo!" he gasped, writhing in agony on the bed as the pain returned even more intense than before, "I-I'm going to see Mama and Papa," he groaned, trying to keep his eyes focused on Bilbo, "I l- love you. Bilbo, I'll miss you. so much."  
  
"No, no, Frodo.don't you dare say such a thing." Bilbo begged, feeling tears spring anew in his eyes as he remembered his dream, "You're going to be just fine, I'm leaving right now to get the healer." He hoped he wasn't too late.  
  
"Please don't go, Bilbo, I don't want to be alone. it hurts so badly." The tweenager pleaded weakly, "Get a knife, Sting even, I'll cut half of my body off to make it stop!" he panted, clutching fistfuls of bed sheets and trying not to scream in agony.  
  
"Oh stop it, Frodo!" Bilbo nearly yelled at his nephew, frustrated by his unwillingness to try to survive, "You'll do no such a thing! I'm going right now, and you just lie there and wait. I shall return as quickly as I'm able!" Bilbo promised, kissing the tweenager gently on the forehead and rising to his feet before Frodo could get another word in.  
  
Bilbo rushed from Frodo's room, down the hall and to the left, making a sharp turn into his study. He searched the drawers of his desk franticly for paper. In his current state of haste and panic, he could find no paper, so he reluctantly tore a sheet from the back of a red book that he had been recording the events of his adventures in. He scribbled a quick note on the paper, clenched it tightly in his fist, and flew out of the front door.  
  
As he was making the trip to the nearest neighbors' house, his mind was working out exactly what he would say to Mr. Fields. He intended on having some less-than-kind words with the healer for this mistake that had nearly- and still could, cost his dear nephew his life. Little did he know that Fosco Fields wasn't at fault, nor was his treatment of Frodo inappropriate- after all, Fosco hadn't wished to discourage Bilbo before he was certain that there was no hope.  
  
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A/N: Thanks for reading! :) If you haven't read it before, then leave a review and let me know what you think. Any ideas about how I could make it better, more interesting, etc? I hope to get chapter 7 finished by tomorrow. :) 


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Well, sorry this is a little later than I promised! I had a setback *cough* I accidentally. . .saved over the chapter yesterday, so I had to start over. I like this one better though! :) Sorry it is a bit. . . long! I tried to provide plenty of information from all points of view. . . otherwise I suppose this would be nothing but Frodo-angst. :)  
  
Thank all of you so, so much for the lovely reviews! :) I'm glad you're enjoying the fic! And, I haven't forgotten about "And In The Darkness Bind Him". There are still at least two chapters left in that fic. I got distracted writing this one, and then ff.net was down, and it's just been one thing after the other. (I'm just full of excuses today! :p ) But, I promise that I will update that story as soon as I possibly can, maybe even before I post another chapter of "September".  
  
Manc Admirer: It isn't the Ring. :) That's a good guess though; I suppose the Ring would be capable of doing such things to the poor hobbit! But this illness is something that quite a few people experience in their lifetime- I hope it never happens to me! But it is fairly easily treated if diagnosed early on. Of course, in the Shire they aren't as learned about such things, much to Frodo's misfortune. :(  
  
Tathar: It is an AU fic, but don't worry *too* much. ;) I believe things will work out, one way or another, in the end.  
  
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"Easy there, lad." Fosco soothed, rubbing Frodo's small back and trying to comfort the hobbit-child in his semi-delirious state. He had barely touched the tweenager, and Frodo was already being difficult. It was clear that he wanted to lie still and be left undisturbed, but unfortunately he wasn't going to be able to have his way.  
  
Bilbo had returned from fetching the healer as soon as he was able. He had gone to Mr. Fields house himself after no one in the vicinity of Bag End answered his urgent knocks. Now he stood by Frodo's bed, observing Fosco Fields as he sat in a chair examining the ill tweenager.  
  
"What do you think it is?" Bilbo inquired, wringing his hands as he peeked nervously between the healer and Frodo.  
  
Mr. Fields just shook his head and answered, "I've hardly begun to examine him, Mr. Baggins, just one moment please."  
  
"Yes, of course. Forgive my manners." Bilbo apologized, staring down anxiously at his nephew's still form, "He's had an awful time of it, Mr. Fields, he's been quite sick on his stomach, the poor little thing. I don't believe that the medicine you gave him yesterday helped much at all." The older hobbit rambled, "And he hasn't got the strength to keep fighting this!" he nearly shouted, "He won't take his liquids, though I doubt he could keep them down if he did, and-"  
  
"Please Bilbo, if you will, go set some water to boil for tea? You'll be of more help in the kitchen than in here fretting over your lad." The healer looked up from his small patient, trying to smile through his own apprehensiveness.  
  
Bilbo nodded vigorously and left without another word.  
  
Fosco sighed, shaking his head. Bilbo's restlessness was beginning to irritate him. And it did nothing to help reduce the tension in the room either. "Frodo, can you turn over for me?" the healer asked gently.  
  
Frodo forced his eyes open, struggling to focus on Mr. Fields, "I- I can't, it hurts so much." He whimpered, "It's much worse now, than it was before." He shook his head weakly.  
  
"And how's that, lad?" Mr. Fields asked.  
  
"I c- can't explain it . . . it's just . . . just, worse. I can hardly breathe without making it start up again, and. . . " he paused gripping Fosco's arm tightly as another wave of pain tore through his small belly. Fosco wiped the lad's face with a cool cloth, and spoke words of comfort into his ear, hoping to help him through the pain. It seemed to help, Frodo found comfort in the healers presence. He was relieved to be around someone who, he thought, knew what he was doing.  
  
When he was at last able to speak again, he continued, "It's very sore now . . . more so than it was earlier, and it h- has spread. My whole stomach hurts, it wasn't nearly as bad before," he whimpered, clearly frightened by this turn for the worse.  
  
"Don't worry, Frodo, you're going to be just fine. Now you must let me check you again, please don't make this harder than it already is." The healer chided, placing a hand firmly on Frodo's knees.  
  
The hobbit-lad whimpered, trying his best to push the hands away from him.  
  
"Frodo, listen to me, would you rather me do this? Or, are you willing to try to turn over on your own?"  
  
Frodo groaned, and his breaths quickened as he anticipated the pain that would undoubtedly come, despite which option he chose. He nodded weakly and answered, "I w- will . . . try to do it m- myself." He finished, swallowing hard and blinking back tears that sprang to his eyes at the thought of moving.  
  
Mr. Fields rose from his chair, ready to assist the child in any way he could. He allowed Frodo the option of doing it himself, simply to see how much strength the boy still had, and perhaps if Frodo moved on his own it would cause him less pain since he knew how to avoid the positions and movements that proved most uncomfortable. During his years as a healer, he had discovered that often times a he could gather more information from a situation such as this, than from an examination of the patient.  
  
Frodo pushed himself up on one elbow, his head drooping from weariness. He fought to stifle cries of pain as he forced himself up from the mattress. He gestured to Mr. Fields that he needed a moment before continuing. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead, and his hand instinctively moved to the area about his right hip. He held it there lightly, trying to slow his breathing back to a normal rate, "Hurts. . .hurts!" he wailed, beginning to cry like a wee hobbit child, "Get Bilbo . . . " he pleaded, gasping for breath "I feel as though I'm going to die, oh it hurts so terribly!"  
  
Fosco's heart was filled with pity as he watched the sick tweenager struggle to flip himself onto his back. He was tempted to intervene and lift Frodo himself, laying him out flat in one swift motion, similar to putting a suffering animal out of its misery. "Come on now, Frodo, just get it over with, lad. I know it's unpleasant . . . you know it can't be avoided though. It isn't so bad." Fosco soothed, wiping Frodo's damp curls from his eyes. He tried to offer as much encouragement as he could.  
  
At last Frodo was ready to continue, though he was unable to bear the pain in silence as he tried to complete the action of turning onto his back. The motion of it sent unbearable stabs of pain through his abdomen and he cried out loudly. The effort of it caused his body to rebel and his shaky elbows collapsed out from under him. He landed flat on his back, struggling to keep his knees pinned tightly to his chest.  
  
"Oh, poor lad, shh . . . Frodo." Mr. Fields thought aloud, surprised that the tweenager had gotten as far as he had unaided. "You're mostly there now!" he said optimistically, "Would you like me to help you the rest of the way?"  
  
Frodo made no response; he was losing his fight with the nausea that still plagued him. His small frame shuddered and he moaned loudly and clutched his head as the world spun, ignoring the pain while trying feebly to roll onto his side in order to prevent the vomit from choking him.  
  
Mr. Fields saw what was coming, and he moved quickly to roll Frodo back onto his side. For a time Frodo did nothing but lay there with his eyes squeezed shut, panting from the pain. Unexpectedly, he whimpered and turned his head to the side, struggling weakly to raise himself up on his elbows. Fosco could see his small body tense as he forced up the contents of his stomach, onto his pillow. The hobbit-lad shuddered, and cried out for his uncle Bilbo just before his stomach lurched again and he heaved, bringing up a mouthful of saliva and bile. Fosco lifted his sweat-soaked head from the pillow, cradling it as the lad suffered through more sickness.  
  
Bilbo walked in near the end of it, and nearly dropped the pot of tea and cup he was carrying. The old hobbit set the items down on a table and immediately went to his nephew's bedside. "Oh my, poor lad . . . " Bilbo whispered fretfully, taking Frodo's cold, trembling hand into his own.  
  
Frodo was oblivious to everything but the pain, which he felt was growing worse by the minute. Every movement, cough, or jolt was nearly unbearable for the tweenager; it hurt so badly that he felt he would surely die.  
  
Bilbo felt Frodo squeeze his hand weakly as the lad heaved again, coughing on the bitter fluid as it rose in his throat.  
  
Mr. Fields still held Frodo's head up. He moved his other hand to the child's back, patting it gently and hoping to soothe him a little. Fosco removed his hand, to find that it was drenched with sweat. Indeed, the hobbit-lad was sweating profusely, much more so than he had been earlier. The healer placed the back of his hand to the lad's forehead, not surprised to find that his fever had risen even higher.  
  
Suddenly Frodo's body sagged in Fosco's arms, his head hanging heavily in the healer's hands. Mr. Fields eased Frodo's trembling body back down to the bed. The lad was completely spent, and barely conscious. His eyes were pinched shut; beads of sweat trickled freely down his face as he gasped for breath. Without a word, Fosco quickly moved one hand to the boy's abdomen and felt for the telltale signs of the illness that he feared plagued Frodo. If he were right in his guessing, then a simple feel of Frodo's belly alone would be enough to diagnose the child.  
  
Frodo cried out in pain as the healers' hands, though gentle, landed on his tender belly. Fosco jumped in surprise at feeling the swollen, rigid stomach. He had hoped that he had been wrong all along, but now his suspicions were confirmed, and his fears justified. He brushed stray locks out of Frodo's closed eyes. His heart sank at this new realization; he knew what it meant for Frodo. "Frodo?" he questioned, "Frodo . . . I need you to drink some tea now, alright?"  
  
Frodo nodded, opening his eyes halfway, "I'll try," he managed.  
  
"That's a good lad . . . " Fosco sighed, relieved that the child was cooperating, "It should help with your throat. Is your throat sore?"  
  
"Y- yes, when I t- threw up . . . I- it burned my throat." He breathed, turning his head into his pillow to stifle the screams that he feared might come at any moment. He was grateful that at least they were allowing him to rest quietly at last, though he found no escape from the pain, it was worsening by the moment and it didn't take much to send him reeling in agony.  
  
Mr. Fields rubbed Frodo's back, as the lad struggled to stay calm and bear the pain stoically. The healer felt Frodo's small frame tremble beneath his hands, whether it was from chills or weakness, he did not know; but the feeling of it stirred pity in his battle-hardened heart. Through all his years as a healer, he had become accustomed to and tolerant of many things, though he had seen very few cases such as Frodo's. It pained him to watch how the families and friends of these unfortunate folk remained hopeful to the end, for it was all they had. Nonetheless, the patient's condition simply worsened gradually, the pain became unbearable, their bodies shut down, and they eventually passed away. He knew it was a terrible way to die, and this lad didn't deserve what was happening to him.  
  
Fosco was roused from his dark thoughts by Frodo's anguished cries as the lad succumbed to the pain, and Bilbo's gentle shushing of his sick nephew. He ran a hand smoothly over the boy's dark curls, wishing that he had healing powers such as the Fair Folk were rumored to possess.  
  
***  
  
At last, when Frodo appeared to be resting as comfortably as could be expected, Fosco and Bilbo made their way quietly into the hall. Both of them were pleased to have gotten a small amount of tea into the sick child. He was terribly dehydrated, and even the smallest amount of liquids helped.  
  
"Oh, Mr. Fields," Bilbo began mournfully, "What's to become of my dear boy?" he finished, tears building in his eyes.  
  
Fosco sighed, pacing back and forth on the rug in the hall, "Mr. Baggins, I'm not going to lie to you- or honey-coat this. It is a bitter tonic to swallow . . . " he paused, focusing on a point in Bilbo's study across the way. "Frodo has . . . well; we don't have a name for it exactly. All that is known about the illness here in the Shire is that it begins with an organ which has somehow become infected, somewhere inside his abdomen." He continued, "It is not treatable, he will not survive it."  
  
Bilbo swayed, turning several shades paler, and clutched his hand to his chest in shock at hearing this grim news, all of his worst fears and nightmares becoming a reality.  
  
"I am sorry, Bilbo . . . you know if there were anything in the Shire that could be done for the boy, I would see it through." The healer sighed, "This is a rare illness . . . I've seen five, maybe ten, cases of it in my entire life." Fosco leaned on the wall, avoiding the older hobbit's eyes. "There is no known cause for it . . . " he blinked hard, forcing his tears back, "Nor any known cure."  
  
As Bilbo stood in the hall, he felt his age as the years came crashing down on him like a wagonload of stones.  
  
"Mr. Baggins?" Fosco inquired nervously, rousing Bilbo from his reverie.  
  
"What do you mean, Fosco? Is there nothing at all you can do for my boy?" Bilbo questioned, wringing his hands in dismay.  
  
Fosco shook his head, and looked into Bilbo's eyes, "I can give him some medication for the pain, and you can continue to force liquids down him . . . hopefully he can keep them down, at least for a little while." Fosco rambled, "Though. . . the illness is rather advanced now, Mr. Baggins. It works fast to kill a hobbit, that's about the only thing I do know about it. Frodo may have one or two days left, at best . . . and to attempt to prolong his life further would be cruel, I'm afraid. It would only be prolonging his suffering, Bilbo, do you understand?" The healer continued, sighing and wiping tears from his eyes with his sleeve. He hated doing this to the old bachelor, he was well aware of how much Frodo meant to Bilbo. Mr. Fields knew about Frodo's past, and had been a family friend of the Baggins' for years. He hated knowing that such a young life would soon be lost so tragically, and so suddenly . . . just like the lives of his dear parents.  
  
"There is no one in Middle-Earth who might help Frodo?" Bilbo questioned, his voice shaky with emotion.  
  
"There isn't time to get him there, Mr. Baggins. I have heard talk that the Fair Folk are capable of healing such ailments- illnesses that affect the body from the inside, though they are only . . . rumors, you see." Fosco explained gently.  
  
Bilbo's heart leapt at this sudden new ray of hope, a beacon of light in the darkness that had descended over his world. Mr. Fields, like most Shire- folk, had little knowledge or understanding of the world outside of the Shire. Perhaps Fosco was mistaken? Perhaps there was some truth to these "rumors". Bilbo had seen the elves, and was an Elf-friend. . . he felt sure that they would help him, and surely Elrond would-  
  
No. The bright ray of hope was nearly extinguished as quickly as it had appeared. He realized what Fosco had just said: "There isn't time to get him there." Frodo would die before he reached Rivendell, and regardless, he wouldn't be able to bear the jostling gait of even the most surefooted pony in the Shire.  
  
"You may be aware of the fact," Bilbo began with a new confidence, "that I have visited The Last Homely House in Rivendell, and had the pleasure of meeting Lord Elrond . . . " he continued, watching as Mr. Fields' eyes glazed over at the mention of such outlandish names and places, "Judging from my own experience, I'm willing to wager that there's more truth to those rumors than you've heard over at the Green Dragon!" Bilbo finished, feeling rather spirited at the moment, despite the grimness of Frodo's prognosis. "I happen to know for a fact, that Elves occasionally pass through our lands on their way to the Havens," Bilbo began again, "If I spent the next day or so searching the borders of the Shire, then perhaps I may be lucky enough to encounter an Elf . . . I am recognized as an Elf- friend among their people, I feel sure that they would help Frodo." Bilbo ended, his eyes searching Fosco's for approval and agreement.  
  
Mr. Fields nodded encouragingly, "Of course, Mr. Baggins, I encourage you to do what you can for the boy. . . if you feel that this expedition is time well spent. Though I strongly urge that you remain here with Frodo, or at least nearby. He hasn't much time left . it would be terrible if you were not here for him when . . . " Fosco trailed off, glancing at Bilbo. They both knew how the sentence ended.  
  
"Oh, Fosco! Don't be such a fool!" Bilbo yelled, "Don't you see? I can change how the sentence ends. It's worth a try, isn't it? If I'm unsuccessful then I shall return before the end of the second day." Bilbo tried a small smile.  
  
Fosco only nodded, he had dealt with enough grief-stricken parents to know that it was folly to argue with one of them. "You must do what you feel is best, Mr. Baggins. I will stay here with Frodo while you're away . . . I'll tend to him like one of my own." The healer smiled slightly. "But," he added, a note of seriousness in his voice, "I never said that your nephew would last two more days . . . I am hopeful that he will, but he is already so weak . . . it is hard to say." Fosco nodded grimly, "He isn't nearly as stout as most lads his age, and I can make no promises." Mr. Fields seriously doubted that Bilbo would be successful in finding an Elf roaming the borders of the Shire, let alone an Elf with advanced skills in healing.  
  
"I understand, Mr. Fields, you can only do what is within your power to do." Bilbo replied.  
  
***  
  
"Frodo?" Bilbo whispered, "Are you awake?" he rubbed Frodo's flushed cheek gently with one smooth hand, willing the child to wake up so that he might say goodbye.  
  
"Bilbo," Frodo answered, his voice trembling with weakness.  
  
Bilbo looked into Frodo's eyes, they were still so blue, yet so haunted with suffering and fatigue. They were sunken far back into their sockets; the lad's face was drawn due to dehydration and illness. The older hobbit regarded his nephew, cupping his small face in his hands, just enjoying being with the lad.  
  
"It feels nice, Bilbo." Frodo stated, smiling wanly at his uncle.  
  
Bilbo couldn't help but smile back, relieved to see that Frodo was finding comfort somewhere, "What does, lad?" he asked.  
  
"Your hands . . . they're so cool and soft," Frodo replied, slowly bringing one of his own small hands up, placing it on top of his uncles.  
  
"Ah, I'm glad it feels nice, Frodo." Bilbo smiled. It struck him then that due to Frodo's high fever, the coolness of his own hands must be a welcome change. He reached over to the nightstand, re-dipping a cloth and wringing it out.  
  
"There we are now, isn't that even better?" Bilbo asked, beginning to wipe Frodo's damp face with the cool cloth.  
  
The hobbit-lad nodded, and Bilbo could feel his nephew relax as he enjoyed the coolness and comfort of his uncles' attention. "Frodo," Bilbo began again, not interrupting his ministrations, "I'm leaving for a day or so." He paused.  
  
Frodo's eyes flew open, and he stared questioningly at Bilbo, "Why, Bilbo?" he began, his eyes tearing up once more, "Please don't leave me . . . " he begged, clutching at his uncle's arm.  
  
Bilbo shook his head, "I'm going to get help, Frodo. You're very ill . . . I'm-" he paused, choosing his next words carefully, trying to be as truthful as possible without being completely honest, "I am going to try to find the Elves, Frodo." He confessed, "They may be able to help make you better . . . faster than Mr. Fields will be able to." He smiled reassuringly. "You've been so brave, lad, so strong . . . I really admire that." Bilbo assured his nephew, "You're going to be just fine . . . I know it's hard, but you're going to get through this and be as good as new before you know it." He finished, trying his hardest to sound cheerful.  
  
Frodo's face fell, "But . . . who will take care of me while you're gone?" he asked, immediately feeling foolish; like a baby who demanded constant attention.  
  
Bilbo noticed Frodo's embarrassment and countered it quickly, "Oh, Frodo, Mr. Fields is going to stay here at Bag End. Besides, I'll only be gone one- two, days at most." He smiled, "Do not feel bad. You cannot help being ill, I wouldn't dream of leaving you alone, Frodo." He patted the tweenagers arm gently, and planted a kiss on his overheated forehead. "Now, I must be off." Bilbo declared, "Don't fret, and listen to Mr. Fields as if he were me!" he shook his finger in mock-seriousness at the tween.  
  
Frodo chuckled lightly, wincing as the pain returned slightly, serving as a reminder of how ill he really was. "Don't worry, Bilbo," he whispered, "I'll mind him." He finished.  
  
"That's my good lad!" Bilbo answered, rising to his feet and heading towards the door. He turned one last time to wave goodbye to his nephew, hoping it wouldn't be the last goodbye he said to the child.  
  
Frodo was left alone once more, he lay as still as possible, trying to undo the damage that he had done by laughing. The tweenager was growing quite suspicious of Bilbo's attitude and strange activities. He suspected that perhaps there was something that his uncle was keeping from him. Though, at the moment, he was too tired to care, and soon slipped into an uneasy doze, relieved to have a break from the pain long enough to get some much needed rest.  
  
***  
  
After Bilbo had left, Fosco peeked in on the tweenager, relieved to see that the medication he had slipped into the lad's tea appeared to be working.  
  
-----------  
  
A/N: Ok, there's Chapter 7. Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think. :) 


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Sorry I've been so long in getting this written! I worked all last week, but things are finally slowing back down and I've got more free time (though that's going to change again soon. :( . . .). Thanks again for the reviews! It is very encouraging knowing that other people are reading my fic and enjoying it. :) I apologize for the length of this chapter, I don't believe I've ever written one this long before (lol). Hopefully I can get the next (and final) chapter of my other fic up soon as well.  
  
Tathar: You guessed right! It is appendicitis, but turns into something more serious due to the delayed treatment.  
  
Floria Tosca: Don't worry! The story isn't terribly AU; I don't want you to be upset. :)  
  
Eleorcira: I'm glad you like my fic! :) You're exactly right about what's wrong with him. But, don't worry- Bilbo won't give up. I'm sorry to hear that your brother and sister both had it! :( That's awful. I hope it doesn't happen to you too. My mom had it when she was a little girl, but thankfully neither my brother nor I have had it.  
  
***** Disclaimer: I do not own anything! :) *****  
  
WARNING: A little bit of this chapter deals with the use of Opium (inhaled, and used in a salve) as a painkiller, as well as a description of its effects. Given the circumstances- such as the current state of Frodo's digestive tract due to his illness, I would think that inhaling it would have been the quickest, most practical, way to get it into his system. Morphine is derived from Opium, and Morphine is a serious painkiller, though I thought it would have been a bit of a stretch to say that the hobbits extracted the Morphine alone, so I just wrote it here that in Frodo's case Fosco used the drug Opium as a whole for pain relief. There is no mention of *how* he acquired the drug, he just has it in his bag with other medicines and occasionally uses it for patients that are suffering like poor Frodo. I realize that the plant originated in the Middle East and Asia, but it did spread to other places. . . so perhaps it could have spread to Middle-Earth. :)  
  
So, if the mention of or the hinting at of the drug, or the effects of the drug, offends you, then please don't read this chapter! I do not want to upset anyone. :) If you don't want to read about it, but still want to know what happens in the chapter, I can edit out offending parts and email you the rest. Just ask me, it's no trouble at all! :) ainur02@yahoo.com  
  
Due to my (very) limited knowledge of medical treatments, I am not sure if what I wrote is completely correct, though I did do my research before I started writing this chapter. The use of the drug in this context is strictly for medicinal purposes, and there is no talk of addictions or abuse of the substance. :) It is used strictly as an attempt at easing Frodo's pain. And as I said earlier, it is a very small part of the chapter.  
  
I haven't studied medicine; I really don't know what I'm doing. This is, of course, fan *fiction*, so please don't interpret any of this as factual or useful information. And if I do offend anyone out there by writing a wee bit about this drug, then please forgive me, I meant no harm!  
  
With that lengthy warning/disclaimer out of the way, I will get on with things now. :) Sorry for rambling for so long! I hope you enjoy this chapter! :) --------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Chapter 8:  
  
It seemed to Frodo that he had hardly closed his weary eyes to sleep when he was woken abruptly by sharp, painful twinges near his right hip. He whimpered slightly, feeling the pain grow steadily into a nearly unbearable throbbing that ran the length of his small abdomen. The pain eventually died down again, returning once more to a dull ache, much to his relief. Though Frodo soon felt it begin anew, as if it were moving in some cruel cycle.  
  
Due to the nature of Frodo's illness, his body was scarcely able to absorb any of the medication that Mr. Fields had slipped into his tea. His bowels had since ceased to function at all, making it impossible for him to absorb any medication administered by mouth.  
  
He gasped in surprise and pain as a sudden sharp stab caught him off guard. Hugging his knees close to his stiff belly, he lay as still as possible trying to slow his breathing and make the pain go away.  
  
***  
  
Fosco sat, within earshot, just on the other side of the room. He had spent the majority of the morning studying several books on healing herbs that he had brought with him in his bag upon returning to Bag End a second time. Hearing the hobbit-child stir, the healer glanced up from his reading. In the morning light he could see Frodo's form trembling with chills as his small body burned with fever. Mr. Fields closed his book, and crept to the lads' bedside. He saw fresh tears trailing down Frodo's ashen cheeks; his eyes were closed as if in sleep, though Fosco knew it wasn't so. The tears were those of pain and fear. The hobbit-child gasped for breath through clenched teeth, and gripped the edge of his mattress tightly, struggling to focus on something other than his growing agony. Fosco wished more than anything to ease the lads' suffering. There *was* one thing left that he could do for Frodo, though he didn't want to administer such substances to such a small hobbit.  
  
The healer moved a hand toward Frodo's still form, letting it linger over the child's abdomen. From several inches away, he could feel heat radiating from the swollen belly. He shook his head sadly, folding his shaking hands silently and blinking back tears of his own. The illness was so advanced now that regardless of whether or not Bilbo found an Elf, he doubted that Frodo would be able to recover. The lad didn't possess the strength necessary to endure any surgery or taxing treatments that may be required, he could scarcely hold his head up. At that point, Fosco just hoped that Bilbo would return home in time to see his lad alive one more time. Though he had had little experience with this particular ailment, he knew how it progressed. It was clear to him that the infected organ had now ruptured, spilling its lethal contents into Frodo's vulnerable abdominal cavity. It meant that unless Frodo received treatment soon, he would die within a few days- at best; it simply wasn't possible for the child's body to fight off the infection, he would be overcome by it. Fosco had thought about it before, but now that the events were playing out before his very eyes, it seemed far worse, and surreal. Watching Frodo die was harder than any other slow death he'd ever had to witness. It was so much more difficult to bear, watching the little one struggle painfully for each shallow breath and seeing his body break down slowly, viewing the ever-present streams of tears that stained his gaunt cheeks. Knowing how much the lad deserved happiness made seeing him suffer hurt all the more.  
  
"Bilbo?" Frodo murmured deliriously, his voice faltering.  
  
"Bilbo isn't here, little one, he has gone for help." Fosco replied gently, kneeling beside the sick tween's bed. "How are you feeling, Frodo?" he asked, feeling the lad's burning forehead gingerly, "Has the pain grown worse?"  
  
Frodo nodded yes slowly before opening his eyes slightly to gaze up at the healer, "Where did he go?" the child persisted, changing the subject "Why. . .why did he. . . leave?" Frodo struggled to finish.  
  
"Oh, poor lad," Fosco cooed, "Don't you worry about a thing, just rest." He continued, "Bilbo will be back soon." It worried Fosco that Frodo didn't seem to remember his conversation with Bilbo from earlier that morning, only hours ago.  
  
Frodo nodded vaguely, closing his eyes again. He squeezed Fosco's arm weakly in thanks.  
  
"Is there anything you need, lad?" The healer offered, "I can make you some tea, or perhaps you would like a cup of water?"  
  
Frodo shook his head, moistening his cracked lips slightly and preparing to speak, "No. . . I am quite t- thirsty. . . though if I drink anything I'm s- sure I'll be s- sick." He replied quietly. "It hurts. . ." he whimpered miserably, his voice cracking "My stomach hurts so much. . . c- can't you make it stop?" he pleaded weakly; "Even just a little bit. . .anything would help. . ." he trailed off, raising his gaze to meet Mr. Fields'.  
  
"I am sorry, Frodo." Fosco shook his head, "There is nothing more I can do for you now, just hold on. Please don't give up, lad, your uncle Bilbo will return soon with help." He smiled slightly, though he knew that he was most likely giving false hope.  
  
Frodo cried out and lowered his head as another spasm of severe pain coursed through his infected tummy. Fosco worked quickly, retrieving a cool cloth to wipe the child's face. He rubbed the small back soothingly in an attempt to ease the lads' pain, or at least try to comfort him with his presence, "Shh. . .Frodo. It will pass soon." He hoped, patting the lad's trembling form sympathetically.  
  
"Sick. . ." Frodo moaned, swallowing several times as he struggled not to lose the contents of his stomach. He brought one pale, unsteady hand up and covered his mouth, trying to keep from vomiting on Mr. Fields.  
  
Fosco gathered the lad into his arms, lifting his small body effortlessly, ignoring Frodo's cries of anguish. He then resettled Frodo so that he was in a position where he wouldn't choke on his vomit if he should become ill. The lad was barely resettled in bed when much of the tea from earlier came back up in a flood of bile and saliva, messing up his bedclothes and blankets in the process.  
  
"Oh, Frodo," Fosco whispered, his voice trembling with fear, "'Tis all right, lad. . . we'll just get you all cleaned up now, hold on."  
  
"I'm. . . so sorry," Frodo gasped, his small form shuddered from the effort and tears of pain and shame began to well up in his eyes once more, "I di- didn't mean to." he sobbed quietly.  
  
Fosco gently shushed the child, "Poor boy, no need to be sorry for that. You can't help it." He reassured Frodo.  
  
The tweenager nodded weakly, closing his eyes and allowing Fosco to lift him from the bed. He bit back gasps of pain as best he could, not wanting to alarm the healer needlessly. Though it was a difficult task, for every time Fosco's foot landed on the floor it sent agonizing jolts reverberating through Frodo's aching belly.  
  
"Now you just lie here while I get some clean blankets and clothes for you, I'll only be a moment." Fosco soothed. The healer pulled a throw close around Frodo's trembling body so the lad wouldn't become chilled.  
  
Mr. Fields soon located the chest of bedclothes in Frodo's room. He pulled out fresh quilts and bed linens, and then proceeded to strip the bed of its soiled blankets. There was no time to allow the damp areas of the mattress dry, and it would be pointless to try, as the lad would most likely be sick again, so he folded a wool blanket several times and hoped that would suffice for the time being.  
  
The healer then made his way back to Frodo's chair. He had selected a comfortable nightshift for the lad to change into. Fosco suspected that the hobbit-child was long overdue for a bath and change of clothes, due to his increased amount of sweating in the past several hours.  
  
"Alright, lad, I'm going to try to do this quickly. . ." Fosco promised, pulling up a chair and fetching fresh clothes and the basin of water that was kept by Frodo's bed. "You must have a bath, 'tis not good to lie around without bathing when anyone's been as sick as you have," Mr. Fields chided gently. "Though of course it is not your fault, Frodo. You're certainly in no shape to bathe yourself- so I'm going to do it for you." He smiled, patting the tween's cheek lightly.  
  
Frodo was pleased to hear that he would be getting a bath. He had wanted one since the previous afternoon, though he hadn't been able to do it for himself, and hadn't wanted to trouble Bilbo further by asking for one. He opened his deep blue eyes, sparing the healer a weak smile of appreciation, "Thank you," he whispered, "I know I must look and smell a fright. . ." he jested slightly, sobering more at the thought of how dreadful he must look- his hair matted from sweat, and his clothes lank and soiled and clinging to his slight frame.  
  
"I will try my best not to touch you anywhere that will cause you pain," Fosco promised, bringing the rag lightly to rest on the tween's forehead, he began washing Frodo's face first.  
  
The hobbit-lad nodded, grateful that he could at least be spared some pain. The thought of having to undress and shift positions wasn't at all enticing to him. . . though neither was continuing to lay in bed wearing soiled garments.  
  
Frodo was enjoying the bath, it was the most comforting thing he had experienced since becoming ill. He would have fallen asleep if the nagging pain in his belly had allowed it, though it never let up, not even long enough for him to doze, it only grew worse and worse. His thoughts then drifted to his party, he almost wept at the thought of it. 'I won't possibly be well in time to finish planning it. . . or even attend it if someone else finished arranging everything.' he thought mournfully, 'I shan't ever be well again.' He grimaced as the washcloth grazed his tender stomach, 'It's entirely my fault. The party plans are spoiled, and poor Bilbo will have to miss out on all of the fun.' Frodo thought of his guest lists, and the presents he had collected to give to friends and family, and how it would all go to waste. He thought of his uncle Bilbo as well, poor old Bilbo had gone off to who knows where, into the woods all alone, all on account of his being ill. He felt tears fill his eyes unbidden. He longed for Bilbo's comforting presence. Just being able to hear the old hobbits' kind voice, or feel his familiar touch, would have calmed the lad more than anything Fosco could have done. He thought last of himself, he couldn't imagine how he could possibly feel worse. . . though he had been thinking that same thought since the previous morning, and he had only begun to feel more wretched since then. Frodo didn't know how much more of this he could take. Even breathing was a punishment. He was so thirsty, yet nothing would stay down, and when it came back up the pain was so terrible it made him wish he would die, rather than linger in misery like he seemed to be doing now.  
  
"There," Fosco put the cloth aside, "That's better. now let me get this clean nightshift on you. . ." he offered, reaching down and beginning to gently work the soiled shirt up.  
  
Frodo whimpered, this was the part he had been dreading, "I can't move. . .You must work around me." He managed, with effort; squeezing his eyes shut tightly.  
  
Fosco sighed, "I'll do my best, Frodo." He promised, "I'll spare you as much pain as I'm able." He finished, pulling the shift up around the hobbit- lads small waist.  
  
"Stop!" Frodo cried, unable to bear the healer's touch any longer. He gripped Fosco's fleshy forearm with two small hands, "Please, let me do it myself," he begged desperately.  
  
"Well all right, lad, you know what feel's best for yourself I suppose." The healer let the cloth drop lightly down to Frodo's body, a little surprised at the lad's reaction.  
  
Frodo carefully worked the gown up, with some assistance from Mr. Fields for places where the fabric was pinned beneath his body. He bit his lip until he thought he would surely have blood trailing down his chin, he didn't want to appear so weak that he was unable to undress himself, though he was sure that Fosco knew it caused him much pain, "Here. . ." he panted, "Take it," he offered the nightshift to Mr. Fields.  
  
Fosco nodded and placed the gown in the same pile as the soiled linens, "Now I'll just slip this over your head and pull your arms through the holes, and we'll let the rest work into place on its own." He decided, "'Tis not necessary to put it on completely right now, I just didn't want you to catch cold from wearing that soaked thing for much longer." He smiled a little, pulling the nightgown down over Frodo's head.  
  
Frodo cooperated, and assisted where he could, moving his arm slightly to accommodate the gown. It felt wonderful to be wearing clean clothes again; the gown smelled of lavender and fresh air, it reminded him of the past summer. It had, indeed, been the best summer in recent memory for Frodo. He had spent days with dear uncle, learning new things, enjoying having a grown hobbit to spend his time with. He had learned so much, and grown so much.  
  
Fosco gently lifted Frodo once more, the lad groaned involuntarily, clutching at the healers shoulders as he was borne carefully back to his soft bed. "There we are," Fosco smiled at the boy as he deposited the sick child back on his mattress. Even throughout the progression of his illness, Frodo had retained his fair complexion and his strange, rather un-hobbit- like, Elvish beauty, it was definitely something to wonder at, Fosco thought.  
  
"You're all cleaned up now," Fosco spoke softly, "Try and rest, Frodo. Even if you don't sleep, just save your strength." The healer directed.  
  
Frodo shrugged slightly, "I can't sleep though," he whispered, "It hurts too badly. . .I cannot even relax." He closed his eyes.  
  
Fosco frowned, disappointed to see that Frodo wasn't trying harder, "I know you're in pain, lad." He sympathized, "But you must understand, when Bilbo returns, I do not know what condition you might be in by that time. . . I do not know what may happen then." Fosco admitted; letting his real fears go unsaid so as not to alarm the child further, "You must do your best to build up as much energy as you can. I know it is hard, but please try Frodo." He begged the hobbit-child.  
  
Frodo swallowed hard, his throat felt like parched earth. He furrowed his brow in disapproval, "You. . . you don't understand." He began, struggling not to lose his voice, "It hurts so terribly, I wish I could. . .g- go to sleep now. . . and just never wake up." He whispered, his eyes shining with unshed tears. He was surprised that he still had any tears to cry.  
  
"Oh, dear Frodo," Fosco started, he really didn't know what to say. He hadn't been in this position before, he didn't know the pain the hobbit-lad was in, he realized that he couldn't even imagine how the child felt. "Frodo. . ." he began again, "I have one thing that you could try. . . I do not know what it may do to you on the side, but the medicine itself is used to relieve pain in patients who are suffering terribly with it, such as yourself." He nodded encouragingly, "I will give some to you, if you would like. . . I don't think your uncle Bilbo would object."  
  
Frodo's eyes flew open, and he looked hopefully into Fosco's eyes, "Yes. . . please," he gasped, "anything. . . anything that may help is something that I'm willing to try."  
  
Mr. Fields agreed, thought somewhat regretfully, and patted Frodo's feverish brow before rising to his feet to fetch the medicine.  
  
He returned shortly, carrying a small stone box with a tight fitting lid. "This should help," he began, "Though I must warn you, Frodo, I don't know how it might affect you." He cautioned, "I am only doing this because I see you suffering and I cannot bear to watch it any more than you can bear to carry on like this without some relief." He knelt beside Frodo, pulling back the layers of blankets that the lad was huddled under. They were already wet with his sweat again; and the tweenagers pale face was covered in beads of it.  
  
"I understand," Frodo nodded carefully, not wanting to aggravate his upset stomach by making his head spin. "Please. . .just let me have some." He begged, "I do not care what it may do. . .I truly cannot bear this any longer." Frodo cried.  
  
Fosco agreed, and opened the box. "This is a salve, I'm going to rub it on your belly and it will relieve the pain." He lifted the child's nightgown enough to gain access to his distended abdomen.  
  
Frodo nodded once more, bracing himself for the pain that would result from being touched in an area that was, by that time, extremely tender and unbearably sore. He jumped, gasping slightly as the healers' hands began delicately applying the ointment.  
  
Fosco talked to his small patient while he worked, trying to take Frodo's mind off of the pain, "I'm afraid I will only be willing to use this once," he began, "Unless of course I deem it necessary to take drastic measures. There is another way to administer this medication, should this attempt fail." He rambled, more to himself than anyone else. He was quite nervous, using such a strong medicine on such a small lad, and he was also well aware of the drugs addictive properties. Fosco hoped that he wasn't using too much, the healer rarely had to resort to using this drug and hadn't had much experience in dealing with the plant it was derived from. Though, he trusted his own good judgment, 'I have to try,' he thought, 'I cannot stand to see the dear child suffer any longer when there is something that I can do that might help.' He continued. He thought it better to take his chances with this risky medication than allow Frodo to be driven mad by pain.  
  
As he continued to rub Frodo's inflamed stomach gently, Fosco was sure that he felt the boy relaxing beneath his hands. Though this was not the most practical way of administering the drug, it was the safest and easiest to control. It would have to do, for the time being, he decided.  
  
**********  
  
Bilbo paused beneath a shade tree to catch his breath. He had barely stopped running since his departure from home in the wee hours of that morning. It was now early afternoon, though the elderly hobbit wished very much that he could rest, he knew that every minute he spent doing anything other than searching reduced his dear boy's chances of survival. He would never be able to live with himself if he thought that the lad's death could have been prevented, but wasn't, because he had halted his search for a brief nap.  
  
He looked about him, up at the orange and yellow leaves on the trees, and over the green grass that covered the gentle, rolling hills. It would be tragic if Frodo never got to enjoy those sights again. It would be entirely his fault if the lad didn't survive, he thought.  
  
Bilbo sighed tiredly, and pushed onward, he knew he had to cover as much ground as he could before evening. It would be difficult to reach the area through which the Elves traveled, by the next morning. Bilbo did have an advantage in that he had lived his entire life in the Shire and knew the shortest, easiest paths to the most obscure places.  
  
He traveled on for several more hours before finally seeing the sign that gave him new hope. If he followed the road that lay waiting before him, then he would undoubtedly encounter any Elves traveling to the Havens, if there were any Elves to be encountered.  
  
***************  
  
Fosco could see it through bloodshot eyes, bleary from crying and lack of sleep. He saw the small box, not ostentatious, but far from plain. It appeared to be crafted of a lighter wood than most that he'd seen, ornately carved in flowing scripts and designs. He found himself wondering who in the Shire had carved such a box. Yet he found himself wondering just as much about the still, deathly pale form that rested in the small, carven box. A small lad, barely a tween, with almost translucent skin and delicate features, a rarity among his kind, lay at rest within. Even in death he was captivating. Fosco looked at the aged, delicate figure that sat hunched over the coffin, his fragile bones wracked with sobs at the loss of his nephew.  
  
**  
  
Fosco opened his eyes, knew he was dreaming, this hadn't happened, not yet. Through the haze of confusion, heard loud cries, diminishing whatever fears may have remained after his unexpected, possibly prophetic, dream.  
  
Frodo had slept for several hours after the ointment began working. Though the poor lad had awoken to worse than he had gone to sleep with. The pain in his abdomen was unyielding, so sharp that it felt like knives were cutting into the tender flesh. His entire body burned with a fever that removed any possibility of sleep.  
  
Fosco rushed to the ill child's side, he feared then, more than ever that he would lose Frodo, he was sure that the tweenagers death was imminent. The small lad was inconsolable, his anguished cries echoed, unrestrained, throughout the hall's of Bag End. He had neither the strength, nor the desire, to continue holding them back. "Shh. . .Frodo, please," Fosco tried to calm the young hobbit, "Frodo. . .please, stop, I'm here. . ." he continued.  
  
Frodo ignored him, not because he wanted to, but because he was oblivious to anything but the terrible pain. "Please. . .j- just let. . . let me. . .d- die." He panted, "I w- want. . . it to st-. . .stop." he cried, coughing weakly as he choked on his own spit. He moaned loudly at feeling the sharp pains intensify, he thought they were surely tearing his insides apart.  
  
Fosco winced as he felt the hobbit-lads grip on his hand tighten until it was nearly unbearable, "Frodo, shh. . ." he tried again, "I can help. . . it's all right, lad." He promised.  
  
Frodo opened his eyes, gasping for air and struggling to focus on the healer. His entire body shook violently from weakness and chill, his dark curls were heavy with sweat, "Wh. . . what are y- you. . . going to. . . to. . . do?" he gasped weakly, almost blacking out from lack of air.  
  
"I've got another way to help give you a break from the pain, Frodo." Fosco forced himself to stay calm; he placed one hand on each side of the suffering tweenagers face, holding the boy's gaze. He was relieved that Frodo was at least aware of his presence.  
  
Frodo nodded quickly, barely able to stay focused long enough before his head flew back, almost involuntarily, and he screamed in pain again.  
  
Fosco stumbled back to his bag, nearly falling several times; he was petrified that he would lose Frodo before Bilbo returned. He didn't want to be the last one to see the dear child alive. Bilbo needed closure at least, he thought, to see the lad alive one last time. And Frodo, poor dear Frodo, every moment was pure agony for the suffering child. But what was to be done about it? He refused to just give up on Frodo, though it seemed selfish and cruel, the small hobbit had practically begged for death, yet Fosco was unable to honor that request. The Creator decided who departed Middle-Earth and when.  
  
He fumbled with a small, slightly indented, square made from clay. From his bag he also removed a little pot that was meant to hold hot coals. Fosco leapt up, and ran for the fireplace. Kneeling by the hearth, he used metal tongs to gather several red-hot coals from the hottest part of the fire. He placed those coals in the small pot, and then adjusted the clay tile appropriately on top.  
  
The healer rushed back to his pack, and dug through it franticly until he found what he was looking for: a small jar of dark colored liquid. He made his way carefully back to the hearth, and placed the jar beside the pot of coals and the tile.  
  
"I need you to get up for me, alright Frodo?" Fosco asked, "Please, lad, you must get up. May I carry you?"  
  
Frodo groaned in response, too consumed by stomach pains to care too much about who took him where or for what purpose.  
  
Fosco waited for no clearer answer, he wanted to act as fast as possible to spare the lad any unnecessary pain. He wrapped Frodo's form in blankets, and hoisted the bundle into his arms, much the same way he would cradle a wee hobbit-lad.  
  
Frodo shrieked in pain, groping helplessly at whatever was within his reach. He gave Fosco such a hard time, that he healer eventually resorted to taking both of the boy's small wrists in one large hand, and holding them firmly in place.  
  
When he reached the hearth again, he set Frodo down very gently, placing the lad on his side so that he could be as comfortable as possible. He waited patiently for Frodo's labored breaths to slow somewhat before he continued.  
  
"Frodo?" he asked, placing a hand on the hobbit-child's forehead, "Frodo. . . do you hear me?" he asked again.  
  
"Y- Yes," Frodo answered weakly, his eyes rolling back in his head.  
  
"Alright. Good, now in just a minute I'm going to ask you to breath this for me." Fosco instructed.  
  
Frodo nodded in response, his breath hitched and he quickly curled up in his blankets and buried his face in their warmth as his small features twisted in agony.  
  
"Poor lad," Fosco soothed, "Just hold on a little longer, it's almost ready." He added.  
  
He held his hand above the tile, checking the temperature of it. Satisfied with what he discovered, he opened the container of liquid, and poured some of it onto the hot tile.  
  
A sweet, pungent odor began to fill the room as the dark liquid in the tile basin burned, emitting a thick vapor.  
  
Fosco moved away from the burner, careful not to inhale the fumes. He pulled Frodo's body into a sitting position, ignoring the pained noises that came from the limp form. He cradled the lad's body in his arms, supporting Frodo's drooping head and instructing the sick child to breath the fumes that came off of the burner.  
  
"Take as deep breaths as you're able, lad." Fosco pleaded, "Even if it hurts, the more you inhale the sooner I can put you back to bed." He promised, "Don't take wee breaths now, Frodo." He put a hand on the child's forehead as Frodo drew a shaky breath, choking slightly on the fumes. Fosco kept his hand on the lad's head, supporting him and keeping his lank curls from falling into his eyes. "That's it. . ." Fosco breathed, pleased to feel Frodo's chest expanding as he held the boy. "Good now," he said, pulling Frodo's head away from the smoking tile.  
  
Frodo whimpered at the sudden movement, and he clung to Fosco as the healer lifted him gently and returned the hobbit-lad to his bed.  
  
Kneeling beside the bed, he forced Frodo to focus on him for a few minutes while he checked for signs that the drug was doing its job. He kept an especially careful eye on the lad's breathing, knowing that Frodo had already been having trouble with it; it could be fatal if the drug hindered his breathing further. He pried Frodo's eyelids open slightly, noting the smallness of the black dots in the center, a sure sign that the drug was taking effect. He appeared to be growing drowsy, and Fosco was sure that pained expression on his face softened.  
  
Fosco was pleased that he had been correct I his guessing: it didn't take much of the potent vapors to sedate the lad and ease his pain. Frodo's eyelids were partially closed, and the healer could see in his eyes that the hobbit-child was relaxing.  
  
Fosco still felt apprehensive about administering such a harsh medication, though the memory of Frodo's screams still echoed heavily in his memory. He knew he had good reason for doing what he did. He would just have to watch the boy closely for the next several hours.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------- A/N: Well, thanks for reading! :) Please let me know what you think? :) 


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Thank you for all the reviews! :) You guys are great! I'm glad you're enjoying the fic. It's good to know that you all thought I did the right thing by having Mr. Fields give Frodo the drug.  
  
Danielle: I promise I'll update more often! :)  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.  
  
*Warning*: There is a little more use of Opium (as a painkiller) in this chapter along the same lines as there was in the previous chapter, please see chapter 8 for more information about that.  
  
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Chapter 9:  
  
It was dark outside. Bilbo had been following the road all that afternoon and evening, into the night. He would not stop until he found help. He hummed to himself, elvish songs, "I might as well sing," Bilbo said aloud, "Maybe it will attract *someone* who can *help*!" he finished, raising his voice slightly at the last part, as though the trees along the way may somehow begin to talk and offer solutions to all of his problems.  
  
He was so tired, and hungry, he wished that time would allow him a brief rest; though he knew it wasn't possible, not if he wanted to save Frodo.  
  
Bilbo trudged on down the road, talking to himself and the creatures of the night that lurked in the shadows and fields of the Shire after dark. He talked aloud to himself, because there was no one else, and talking to ones self is better than talking to no one at all, Bilbo believed.  
  
The creatures of evening teased him; around the time of dusk he had noticed a soft light which appeared to be burning steadily in the distance. The light then disappeared unexpectedly, only to reappear somewhere else a short time later. It almost reminded him of the incident in Mirkwood, it meant that elves could be near, which gave him hope. Soon he began to see more lights, though in his weary state he had failed to realize that it was still warm out, and the lights were nothing more than lightning bugs, fireflies. As it got darker, they appeared more frequently, taunting him with their hopeful flashes of light, briefly illuminating the darkness.  
  
"Frodo liked to catch lightning bugs," Bilbo remembered mournfully as he trudged down the empty road, tears coming to his eyes at the thought of his dear lad suffering at home with some mysterious, fatal illness. An image of the boy chasing around the glowing bugs at dusk on the hills surrounding Bag End found its way into his minds eye, along with a snatch of a conversation the two had shared only weeks before Frodo had gotten sick:  
  
  
  
"Why do they glow, uncle Bilbo?" Frodo had asked excitedly, his eyes bright with wonder.  
  
"They guide travelers along the road, lad." Bilbo had smiled at his answer, though he doubted it was true, such things fed the imaginations of young hobbits.  
  
"Look, Bilbo! It looks like moonlight. . ." Frodo had exclaimed as he observed the pale light of the bugs that shone through the thin fabric walls of the box by his bed, "A little moonlight of my very own." The lad had smiled contently at the thought.  
  
The memory of Frodo's merry laugh filled Bilbo's ears. "It certainly does, Frodo! And you've got your very own little bit of moonlight too, don't you?" he had answered the lad.  
  
"They're like tiny elves, Bilbo!" Frodo exclaimed, his voice full of wonder, "You said Elves give off light, a glow of sorts." He then looked to Bilbo, pleased that he had retained the bit of information that his uncle provided him with, "Tell me more about the elves!" he had begged.  
  
"Not tonight, Frodo." Bilbo had smiled gently, "It's getting late, dear boy. Time for bed. . ." he said.  
  
"Oh, please!" Frodo begged, his small face hopeful, "Just one little story, then I promise I'll go to sleep." The lad pleaded.  
  
Bilbo relented, never one to deny a curious young mind fodder for its thoughts. "All right, lad. I don't suppose one brief tale will hurt," he grinned, tousling the boy's thick curls.  
  
  
  
"He'd catch them in little boxes," Bilbo said to himself as he continued down the dark road, ". . . and then set them beside his bed at night for a bit of light." He felt hot tears begin to dampen his cheeks. "Poor lad," he cried quietly, "My poor, dear Frodo," he sobbed. Bilbo reached in his pocket, pulling out his handkerchief and using it to dry his eyes.  
  
Bilbo was roused from his memories by the sound of singing; he knew the song. It was a beautiful song, sung by fair voices, and in a strange language. He looked ahead on the path to see a softer light, several lights, barely visible as they shifted gracefully, seemingly through the trees, never faltering, never halting. He composed himself, and set off in the direction of the lights as quickly and quietly as his short legs could manage.  
  
-----------------------  
  
Before he knew it, Fosco found himself stooping by the hearth in Frodo's room again, filling the small pot with hot coals. He placed the tile basin atop it, and went back to check on his small patient.  
  
The healer hated to resort to this drug again, but it would be cruel not to. Frodo had rested peacefully for several hours, dozing frequently. The hobbit-lad had experienced some increased nausea, but it was nothing he couldn't bear after having already been through so much. Fosco had even spent some of the time holding Frodo in his arms. The boy had wanted to be held close, and it seemed to have done his spirit a world of good. Though, as the medication wore off, he became nearly delirious from pain, and the routine sponge baths that Fosco had begun giving him for the fever appeared to have stopped working. As Frodo's pain began reaching near unbearable level's again, Fosco held out as long as he could, trying other things that he thought might help reduce Frodo's suffering, though he soon gave up that venture and elected, regretfully, to try more of the strong drug. The child didn't appear to be negatively affected by it. It had given Frodo so much needed relief that the healer was willing to accept whatever consequences may result from his actions, though, Fosco seriously doubted that Bilbo Baggins would fault him for trying to help his boy.  
  
"Frodo. . . I'm going to move you now, alright?" Fosco whispered gently.  
  
Frodo released the breath he'd been holding, and tried his best to nod in response.  
  
Fosco gently slid two arms beneath the lad's frame, and lifted him carefully. Though no amount of care could have saved Frodo from the excruciating pain that was ignited in his belly as he was moved.  
  
The hobbit-child groaned in pain, and cried out loudly, "I'm go-. . . going t-. . .to die. . ." he gasped, "Pl- please, ma-. . .make it stop or. . .or l- let me. . . me die." He begged, tears flowing from his blue eyes.  
  
"Hold on, lad, almost there. . ." Fosco promised, gently settling Frodo in his arms by the hearth in front of the pot of coals. The small child's legs hung limply off of Fosco's lap, the healer noticed that even the thick tufts of hair on his small feet were wet with sweat.  
  
Frodo let out a wail, nearly losing his breath from the strain put on his swollen abdomen as the healer held him protectively, preparing to lower his head down over the tile basin.  
  
Fosco reached over and opened the bottle of liquid, pouring a fair amount onto the burning apparatus. "Breathe in through your nose, Frodo." The healer reminded, "Deep breaths now. . . I know it hurts, but soon you won't feel the pain. . ." he continued, closing Frodo's mouth gently with one large hand. He noted earlier that the lad preferred to leave his mouth open, but he mustn't allow Frodo to do so this time, it would be a lot quicker if he his panting didn't hinder the rate at which he could inhale the vapors.  
  
Frodo struggled weakly, trying to force his mouth open to breath. He soon resorted to breathing through his nose, inhaling the vapor in the process, shakily at first, but the breaths soon evened out more and the child's body began absorbing the fumes.  
  
Fosco rubbed his back, encouraging the boy to take deep breaths, "There we are, lad, almost done. . . you can go back to bed soon." He promised.  
  
Frodo whimpered, attempting to shift away from the smoke. Fosco quickly pulled the child away, leaning him back in his arms to get a look at his face. The face hardly looked like it belonged to the vibrant tween that he'd seen running about Hobbiton all summer. The pale skin and dark circles beneath his sunken eyes were telltale signs of illness.  
  
At that moment he was reminded of one particular time in late spring that he had seen Frodo at the market, sneaking little pieces of dried apple from a bin of them at Mr. Boffin's stand. He chuckled at the memory. Frodo had swung about, prepared to move on to the next thing that interested him. He had nearly run right into Fosco, his eyes wide with surprise at the shock of having nearly been caught. His rosy cheeks had turned beet red, and he took off running, ashamed to be caught sneaking apple wheels at his age. The lad had been nearly chest-high on Fosco at the time. Though by the fall, Frodo passed that mark easily, he had really grown that summer. Fosco chuckled; he suspected it was his uncle Bilbo's cooking, trying to get the boy to fill out. Hobbits with slim lads and lasses were not looked upon with the highest honors; any parent who couldn't fatten up their children surely wasn't a good one by hobbit standards. Bilbo was already seen as strange, and Fosco thought that surely the old bachelor didn't want to be known for having an 'overly slim' lad.  
  
Fosco's thoughts returned to present, and he looked down at the shivering bundle he held in his arms. If Frodo survived, then Bilbo would have his work cut out for him trying to fatten the lad up. Frodo had lost an awful lot of weight, and he would likely lose more before all was said and done. His eyes were half-lidded, the expression on his wan face was proof that his mind was elsewhere, and his pain was forgotten for the time being.  
  
Fosco stirred slowly, lifting the lad carefully and bearing the small bundle back to the bed. Frodo hardly whimpered at all, if anything it could have been interpreted as a sigh of relief. The healer was dreadfully concerned about giving too much drug, the result of which could be deadly for Frodo in his already weakened state.  
  
The lad opened his eyes a little, managing a weak "Thank you" for Mr. Fields.  
  
"You're welcome, Frodo." Fosco smiled slightly, pleased to see that the child was finding rest when he needed it so. "I'm glad it's helping." He sat down in his chair beside Frodo's bed, and began stroking the small lad's wet curls soothingly.  
  
"Bilbo?" He asked softly.  
  
Fosco sighed, terribly concerned that the lad still hadn't realized that Bilbo had gone. Though he did not wish to cause Frodo grief, so he played along with the lad. There was no harm in it, he thought. "Yes, Frodo?" Fosco answered.  
  
"I. . .love you, Bilbo." Frodo smiled slightly.  
  
Fosco knew it was the medication talking, and perhaps that is why the child had mistaken him for his uncle. "I love you too, Frodo." He answered, patting Frodo's back gently.  
  
"Bilbo?" Frodo asked again, opening his eyes to look at the healer.  
  
"Yes, Frodo?" Fosco answered.  
  
"I'm not. . . going to be all right, am I?" the lad asked, holding Mr. Fields' gaze.  
  
Fosco didn't know what to say. Of course you never tell even the sickest of hobbits that they're not going to make it, certainly not a child. "Whatever make's you think such a thing?" Fosco asked, curious to know what the lad's response would be.  
  
"I. . .d- don't know," Frodo answered, his voice shaky with emotion. "I don't know what's. . .wr- wrong. . .with me. I've never. . .never felt s-. . .so sick be- before." He continued, his voice barely a whisper, "You think. . .think I'm. . g- going to d-. . .die. . .Don't you?" he ended.  
  
Fosco could see tears sliding down Frodo's cheeks once more. "Oh, Frodo, don't say such things." Fosco answered, "You're going to be just fine." He continued, "You're not going to die, dear child. . .I've never thought it, and you shouldn't either. . ." He tried to sound optimistic, "Just rest now, lad." The healer directed.  
  
Fosco knew that when a hobbit was dying, the individual in question knew it. It surprised him though, that one so young was so perceptive of others' thoughts and feelings.  
  
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Bilbo was nearly out of breath by the time he caught up with the mysterious lights. It seemed as though it had taken forever to reach them, though they weren't moving at a very fast pace, his short legs felt like lead, and though he struggled to run he still made slow progress.  
  
"Hello!" Bilbo called desperately, "Hello! Please!" he begged as he drew closer to the lights. The glowing group paused, and turned around to meet him.  
  
Bilbo nearly fainted with relief upon seeing that he had found what he was looking for. A group of five elves stood before him now, a slightly amused look on their faces at seeing a flustered halfling out in the middle of the woods at such an hour of the night.  
  
The leading elf, a male with long dark hair and ageless hazel eyes, knelt down to get a better look at this strange creature. "Whatever brings you out at such an hour, Master Halfling?" the elf inquired.  
  
Bilbo looked around, clearly taken aback by their light mood after he had spent so much time alone on the road, brooding over his predicament, though he was still able to remember his manners. Having been among elves before, he knew how and how not to conduct himself in their presence. Bilbo drew himself up and took a deep breath before he began, "My name is Bilbo Baggins. I've journeyed forth from my home, seeking your help, I feel very fortunate to have found you. . . and I will feel even more so if you are able to help my cause." He stated boldly.  
  
The graceful elf arched an eyebrow, "And what might that be?" he asked.  
  
Bilbo looked at the ground, his resolve wavering as his emotions began to take over, he sniffled, looking back up, he struggled to get the words out, "My. . .young nephew, Frodo, is very ill." He began, "I have dwelt briefly in Rivendell before, and have been deemed 'Elf-friend' by lord Elrond." He continued, "The healer here in my lands- the Shire- does not know what to do." He looked expectantly from one Elven face to the next, "He says that Frodo will die if he does not receive treatment. . ." Bilbo swallowed hard, "And yet he does not know how to help the lad." He cried.  
  
The elf's expression lost it's merriness, "I'm terribly sorry to hear such grim news, Master Baggins." The elf placed a hand lightly on the hobbits shoulder.  
  
Bilbo nodded, ashamed to have become so emotional in the presence of such great beings. "He's all I have, you see, he is like my son. I don't know what I shall do if he doesn't make it. . ." Bilbo cried.  
  
The elf tilted Bilbo's chin up, and looked into the hobbits teary eyes, "Grieve not, Master Baggins. We are on our way to the Havens, though I do not object to leaving the group and traveling with you to help your nephew." The group of elves was from Rivendell, and they had occasionally heard tales of the strange halfling and his heroic deeds at Lake Town. If this were indeed the same halfling of which some in Rivendell still spoke, then he would try his best to save the dear hobbit's sick child.  
  
The tall elf rose to his feet, and instructed Bilbo to wait for him, "I must speak with my companions, they understand little Westron, and I must tell them why they will be traveling without me the rest of the way."  
  
Bilbo nodded, "Yes, of course. Thank you ever so much. . ." Bilbo paused, "I'm afraid I do not know your name."  
  
The elf smiled, "I am called Dimhirion."  
  
Bilbo returned the gesture, "Thank you, Dimhirion."  
  
After Dimhirion conferred with his companions, he turned back to Bilbo. They turned back towards the direction of the Shire, and started the journey back to Bag End.  
  
"Slow down, Master Baggins!" Dimhirion called, concerned for the old hobbits well being. He appeared to have been running for quite some time without any rest, and he was running still, though his body clearly needed rest.  
  
"I must continue on," Bilbo called back, "Frodo hasn't got much time. . .we must reach Bag End as soon as possible or it will be too late."  
  
The elf nodded, he understood that time was an issue, "I shall carry you for a ways then," he offered, easily lifting Bilbo onto his shoulders and taking off at a brisk pace, his long legs covering more ground with one stride than Bilbo's could even when running full speed. "Do not worry, Bilbo" Dimhirion reassured the hobbit, "We shall be back at your home by morning."  
  
Bilbo nodded, "I hope it's not too late," he fretted, "But it's all that can be done, I understand."  
  
------------------------- A/N: Thanks for reading! :) Please let me know what you think. 


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: I'm glad everyone's enjoying this fic. :)  
  
EleorCira: Don't worry! ;) Thing's are going to work out. I'm glad you like the fic!  
  
Demonic-Kiwi: Thanks for the compliment! :)  
  
LilyBaggins: Don't worry, Lily! :) Though he isn't a healer, he knows more about what to do for Frodo than many people would.  
  
I'm glad you're enjoying the medical detail. I always try to research things before I write. I'm glad to hear that at least some of it is making sense! :)  
  
I hope that I can write a(n original- my other fic is set after Weathertop, though that's a different kind of illness.) sick Frodo fic set during the quest, I'd love to do that! Once I start school this fall and find out how much my classes are going to demand of me, I'll probably start one. :) I'm hoping to get the two that I'm working on now finished up before I start, it wouldn't be a big deal at all if I weren't working. :( Ah, the real world is so difficult to deal with sometimes (er, a lot of times!). Thank you for the compliment; I'm so glad you like my writing! :)  
  
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Chapter 10:  
  
Dawn's first light was just becoming visible over the East horizon in the Shire when Bilbo and Dimhirion approached Bag End. They had made excellent time, for Dimhirion had not required any rest, and his pace hadn't slowed. Bilbo still rode atop the Elf's shoulders, and felt rather refreshed after having caught brief snatches of sleep during the journey home. Upon seeing Bagshot Row come into view, he asked to be put back on the ground.  
  
"It's this way, Dimhirion." Bilbo called anxiously as he continued to run ahead.  
  
The Elf nodded politely, and promptly caught up with the short-legged Bilbo in four long strides.  
  
It was indeed a beautiful fall morning, one that should be appreciated and made to last as long as possible. The cloudless sky promised an even more glorious day ahead, typical of the time of year. Under different circumstances, Bilbo might have stopped to smoke a bowl of pipe weed and watch the sunrise before heading home to make breakfast before the resident tweenager woke.  
  
The old bachelor pulled his key from a pocket in his trousers as soon as he turned down Bagshot Row. He walked quickly down it until he turned down the short path that led to Bag End's front door. He slipped the key into the lock and pushed the door open in one swift motion, barging straight into his home. Dimhirion, ducking to avoid banging his head on the door, followed right behind.  
  
He stopped in the foyer, noting the silence of his smial. It was dark, and he could scarcely any hear sounds, save the occasional chirp of crickets that had taken up residence behind the kindle box next to the hearth in his den.  
  
Fear seized Bilbo's heart as he thought about what the silence could mean. Was he too late? Had his dear lad passed on during the night, and he hadn't even been there as the sick child drew his last breath? Tears of guilt sprung to his eyes at the thought of it, 'I shouldn't have left,' he chastised himself harshly, 'I should have stayed with Frodo until the end, and I didn't. I left in search of someone who might be able to prolong his life, and in doing so I missed the last moments of it. I'll never see him again.' Bilbo thought.  
  
He turned down the dark hall, and made his way quietly to Frodo's bedroom door. He wanted to keep the lad alive in his own mind for as long as possible, even if in reality it weren't so. Bilbo put his hand on the knob and paused, preparing himself for whatever he may find within. Though from the silence, he suspected that he would find no one, only a note saying that Frodo had died and his body was being prepared for burial. Bilbo's heart beat heavily in his chest, echoing in his ears; for seemingly endless moments, time seemed to stop, and it was all he could hear.  
  
"Master Bilbo?" Dimhirion whispered, from behind.  
  
Bilbo jumped at hearing someone call his name. He turned around, forcing a weak smile. Dimhirion knew that the forced expression on Bilbo's face betrayed the trepidation and emotion that shone in his eyes. Without further delay, he opened the door.  
  
Fosco was in his customary chair by the bed, he turned and nodded grimly to Bilbo, acknowledging the elder hobbit's presence. Bilbo could just make out Frodo's small face, its color blending with the white sheets, peeping out from beneath several thick quilts and blankets. He was distraught to see his lad in such a state; his face looked nothing like it had before. If Bilbo hadn't known better he would have sworn that it was a mask, a poor, sickly recreation of Frodo's visage. Though through the shock of seeing Frodo like that, the old hobbit was relieved to find that his lad was still alive.  
  
Bilbo wasted no time; he rushed to the child's bedside and knelt on the rug. "Frodo?" he called gently, stroking the lad's damp curls. He shook his head, unable to find his voice to speak again.  
  
Frodo swallowed before speaking, "Bilbo?" he managed a weak whisper through cracked lips. The hobbit-child opened his eyes slightly to look up at his uncle. He stared at Bilbo in silence; only half believing that dear Bilbo was really there beside him.  
  
Bilbo nodded empathetically, bending down to kiss the boy's damp forehead, "Yes, lad. . ." he whispered, "I'm here now." He breathed a sigh of relief, hugging the lad gently.  
  
Frodo reached his small arms out a short ways, and Bilbo took both hands, squeezing them gently. "I th- thought that. . . that I'd never s- see you again, Bilbo." Frodo cried.  
  
"Oh no, lad, whatever gave you that idea?" Bilbo asked, "I promised you I would return. . .I keep my promises." He smiled.  
  
Frodo shrugged, tears of relief began to stain his cheeks. Though the lad was still confused, he was happy that Bilbo was with him once more. The previous night he had repeatedly mistaken Fosco for his uncle, though they were distinctively different, in many ways, the child hadn't been in his right mind for the past day or so.  
  
"He's not been right, Mr. Baggins." Fosco piped up.  
  
"What do you mean?" Bilbo questioned, concerned for Frodo's well being, "Oh, and thank you, for looking after him while I was away." He smiled.  
  
"'Tis no problem at all, Bilbo." The healer assured Bilbo, "But your lad hasn't been right, since you left. He mistook me for you, and before that he didn't know where you had gone, though I know you told him your plans before you left yesterday morning." Fosco continued, "The poor lad cried for you though, and other times he didn't seem to know who anyone was," he shook his head sadly. "I'm not sure if it's the fever, or I suppose it could be something else. Though I did use a rather strong drug on him last night." He admitted. "But he had been in and out for a while before that. Though you must understand, Bilbo, that the boy was in terrible pain." Fosco nodded gravely, "I couldn't bear to watch him suffer like that." He looked over to Frodo.  
  
Bilbo nodded fervently, "Of course not, Fosco, I wouldn't have expected you to." He blinked back tears at the thought of his poor boy suffering so, and he hadn't been by his side to comfort him.  
  
Fosco sighed, "I've not used any on him since last night." The healer continued, "He's begged me for it, but I did not know when you would return. . . or if you would find help, and I've only a limited supply of the stuff- I don't use it often." Fosco shrugged, "I see you didn't. . .find any help. . ." the dreaded words were dragged out, he regretted so much that he had to say them. He now knew that Frodo's fate was sealed.  
  
"No." Bilbo answered, "No, I found help. I wouldn't have stopped searching until I had."  
  
"Who did you find? Where are they?" Fosco asked, glancing about the dark room to see if the had overlooked the presence of another.  
  
Bilbo walked back to the door, and opened it, admitting Dimhirion.  
  
Fosco gasped in shock, "That's. . .that's an. . . elf!" he cried as he backed away from Dimhirion, unable to think of anything better to say. He had never been fortunate enough to see one of the Fair Folk, though he had heard many rumors. He immediately decided that the rumors, both of the Elves' splendor and wisdom, did not do them justice at all.  
  
Dimhirion laughed quietly, amused by the halfling's strange behavior, "I am Dimhirion, formerly of Rivendell. The group I was with, four others and myself, was journeying toward the Havens when your kinsman came before us on the road and I first became aware of your misfortune. " He paused, "It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance." And he bowed.  
  
Fosco sat in stunned silence, gaping in awe at the mysterious being that stood before him. He soon regained his power of speech and introduced himself; "I am Fosco Fields of the Shire, and a healer of Hobbiton." He smiled broadly, albeit shakily, bowing lower than the Elf had, yet feeling that he must look slightly clumsy compared to the former.  
  
"Let us not wait any longer to tend to the sick child," Dimhirion stated, and he turned to Frodo's bed. "Frodo? Can you hear me?" Dimhirion asked the still form lying beneath the blankets.  
  
Frodo stirred slightly, opening his eyes to look at the elf. A small gasp of surprise escaped his pale lips, and he struggled to shift lower in bed in an attempt to hide his face beneath the blankets, though the pain in his stomach would not allow it. After a few moments of fighting, he gave up, and lay gasping for breath, his blue eyes wide with fear and pain.  
  
"Do not be afraid, little one," Dimhirion soothed, covering the small halfling's forehead with one graceful hand. "I've come to help," he promised.  
  
Bilbo stepped up and took Frodo's trembling hand, reassuring the child that this being meant no harm. "I am sorry that your first meeting with an Elf has to be under such circumstances, Frodo." Bilbo gave the limp hand a squeeze.  
  
Frodo didn't answer; he was too transfixed by the Elf.  
  
"Frodo," Bilbo moved in front of Dimhirion, "Frodo, it's all right. He's here to help."  
  
Frodo let out a small whine, and tilted his head back. His eyes were squeezed shut in pain as he gasped for breath.  
  
"Poor lad," It hurt Bilbo that he could do nothing to ease Frodo's suffering, though he spoke softly to the child, hoping to calm him if nothing else, "It's going to be all right, you'll see. I know it hurts now, but cooperate for Dimhirion and you'll be well soon enough, dear boy." He finished, moving aside so the Elf could get a closer look at his nephew.  
  
Dimhirion knelt beside Frodo, stroking his damp curls gently. The hobbit- lad seemed to relax beneath the Elf's hands, and the pain in his belly eased up some once he was no longer so tense.  
  
"That's a good boy," Bilbo whispered, more to himself than anyone else present. He was pleased to see some progress at least.  
  
The Elf turned and asked the healer, a concerned tone to his voice, "What is causing him such pain?"  
  
"It's his stomach," Mr. Fields began, "Or, rather an organ somewhere in his belly which somehow became infected. I fear. . .that it has burst, I'm drawing this assumption based on his high fever and the severe pain. It is a rare illness, we haven't a name for it," he added, "Though it has always simply been a death sentence to those who contract this disease." He trailed off.  
  
The Elf nodded slowly, digging through the depths of his memory for anything to contribute to the halfling's definition. He tilted his head to one side, in thought, before speaking again, "Unfortunately, I was never a healer among my people." He reminisced, his eyes clouding with what could only be interpreted as sadness, "I was, at one time, learning the trade. . .however not all goals set are attained, for one reason or another." He sighed, "Though I have seen many illnesses during my time, and have assisted with many medical procedures." And his train of thought shifted again, "I have no materials, or supplies, for whatever operations may be required to correct this." He look at the two hobbits. "I brought nothing with me, save for what few belongings I carried from Rivendell, which are still with my traveling companions."  
  
Fosco pointed across the room to where his bag lay, practically untouched, "I have my bag here, though I do not know what you may find of use inside."  
  
Dimhirion nodded, "Yes, we shall have to make do with what meager supplies we have, though I may send you to fetch some needed materials."  
  
Fosco and Bilbo both nodded, eager to assist wherever they could.  
  
The group was disrupted from their planning by a small cry that escaped Frodo. The small lad then moaned loudly and clutched his swollen belly with both arms, his features twisting in agony; his body trembled from exhaustion. He swallowed several times, and unconsciously called to Bilbo. Dimhirion placed a hand on the small child's back, and he could feel Frodo's body tense just before the lad began heaving. There was no time to gather even so much as a towel.  
  
Bilbo knelt beside the Elf, and held his lad's head as Frodo vomited, comforting him as best he could as each painful heave seized his nephews' body. At times, Frodo heaved so violently that half of the small tween's body came up off of the mattress from the force of it. Frodo cried out from the pain, and the fear of not being able to breathe at all as his stomach cramped up repeatedly and forced every bit of its contents out through his mouth.  
  
When it was finally over, his head drooped in Bilbo's hands, and he began to cry. Bilbo eased his nephews sweat soaked head back down to the pillows, and tried his best to sooth the frightened child.  
  
"Shh. . . Frodo, it's over," he whispered, "It's over. . .just rest. . .shh. . ." he stroked the small cheek gently and wiped away the continuous flow of tears with his thumb, "Poor boy, hold on. . ." Bilbo gathered a cool cloth to wipe the vomit from around Frodo's mouth and chin.  
  
Frodo whimpered as he began panting for breath, trying to silence his cries, he felt sharp pain start to attack his worn out body once more, "Stop!" he practically screamed, at no one in particular.  
  
Everyone in the room jumped slightly at this unexpected outburst, Bilbo pulled the blankets close around his dear nephew, and whispered comforting words in Frodo's ear.  
  
The small hobbit clutched his blankets tightly in two small fists, "Uncle Bilbo. . ." he cried, "It. . .it hur- hurts s- so. . .so b- badly," Frodo wailed, "I n- never. . .never thought an-. . .anything c- could. . hur- . . .hurt so. . .so m-. . . much." He cried, no longer able to restrain himself.  
  
"Let it out if you need to, Frodo," Bilbo said, wincing at the unanticipated shrillness of Frodo's tormented cries, "Easy now, lad, that might make it worse," he pointed out, though Frodo, too consumed by his suffering, didn't hear him. Bilbo wrapped his arms around the lad as best he could, without moving him, and held the child until his screams died down to quiet sobs, and finally back to shuddering gasps for breath. He himself nearly began to cry for little Frodo; the child should never have to endure such pain, no child should have to.  
  
Bilbo looked down at the puddle of vomit on the bed, in the murky light of early morning he could make out distinct streaks of red throughout it. He looked closer; hoping that it was just his eyes playing trick on him, though he soon discovered it wasn't so.  
  
"Fosco?" The older hobbit asked anxiously, "Look. . .is that. . ." he didn't want to say what he hoped it wasn't, "Did you give Frodo anything red to drink or eat?"  
  
Fosco approached the bed, "No, Mr. Baggins. He only took just a small amount of water late last night. . ." the healer confirmed.  
  
Dimhirion studied the streaks with keen eyes; he knew it had to be blood. "Has he been vomiting much?" The elf asked.  
  
"Rather frequently, yes," Fosco answered, "Though until just now he had been doing better. . ."  
  
The elf nodded, "It is to be expected then." He assured the concerned hobbits, "And given the force I watched him exerting during his most recent bout, I believe Frodo has most likely torn something, it's probably nothing to worry too much about." Dimhirion promised. If it had been a major tear, or a stomach affliction, then there would have been much more blood. "Though," he added, "It's most likely rather uncomfortable for him. And we must keep a close eye on the situation as well."  
  
Fosco nodded, "Yes, the poor child has barely taken anything to drink. He has complained that his mouth and throat were dry, but he refused liquids, I barely got him to take any water at all last night."  
  
"Yes. . ." he said thoughtfully, turning back to Frodo's bed; "It's best that I examine him now. From what you've told me, time is not on our side." Dimhirion called over his shoulder to the other two halfling's, "We shall soon see if there is anything that can be done to help him."  
  
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A/N: Again, I thank you for reading! :) Let me know what you think. 


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: I'm glad you're all still enjoying the fic! :) And I thank everyone for taking the time and leaving such nice reviews! You're all so nice! :) I remember when I first posted a chapter on ff.net I was afraid I'd get flamed for one reason or another, but I can honestly say never met a more encouraging bunch of people than you guys, and I've never gotten a bad review from anyone. :)  
  
I would have updated yesterday, but I didn't get the chance to write because I got home from work and soon decided to watch a certain DVD (Yay!). I thought it would never come! :) *cough* Don't pre-order DVD's from that online store that shares its name with a river. . .;) It only had to come from TN, yet it still took seven days to get here. Oh well, at least it finally came. :)  
  
Things should get more interesting for Frodo from here on out (for a little while at least), because they finally stop talking and start doing something for the poor hobbit. :)  
  
Tathar: I'm glad you like my fic! :) Don't worry. ;) Let's just say that wouldn't be able to live with myself if I actually 'killed' Frodo.  
  
ThE iNsAnE oNe: Don't cry! I like him too! :)  
  
Manc Admirer: I'm glad I've been able to update regularly, I feel bad about not having finished my other fic! Ah! Hopefully it'll get done this week. :)  
  
Dimhirion will find a way to help Frodo; at least he is going to try. He is a very resourceful Elf, and definitely has healing powers. Though he never became a healer in Rivendell, he did study it, and possesses his own natural ability as well.  
  
Thank you for the review! I'm glad you're enjoying the fic. :)  
  
Tiggivon: Thank you for the compliments! :) I have written a Weathertop story that is slightly AU, its called "And In The Darkness Bind Him", there is one more chapter left in it. It begins soon after Frodo's wounding at Weathertop, and goes through to his waking in Rivendell. If you do want to read it, there's a link to it on my profile. :)  
  
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Chapter 11:  
  
"One of you please build up the fire, Frodo mustn't become chilled while I examine him." Dimhirion told the other two hobbits.  
  
"Stay with your lad," Fosco patted Bilbo's shoulder reassuringly before hurrying out to collect more wood for the fire.  
  
Bilbo nodded slowly as he continued to stroke Frodo's small hand, his gaze never straying from his nephew's slight form.  
  
"Do not despair, Bilbo," Dimhirion's songlike voice reached the old hobbits' ears. The Elf had no words of comfort to offer Bilbo; even he did not yet know what fate awaited little Frodo.  
  
The elf rose from the bedside, and went to inspect Fosco's bag. He felt it wise to assess the stock of herbs that the hobbit healer kept handy before things went any further. Dimhirion was pleased to find various herbs that he was familiar with, including a dark brown liquid which, by the smell, he judged to be Opium suitable for burning to aid in pain relief, Dandelion root for cleansing, Dwaleberry lotion for pain- or to counter an accidental overdose of the Opium- a useful thing to have with such a small, unstable patient, and dried Honeysuckle blossom extract for the healing process.  
  
Fosco soon returned with an armload of small logs. He carefully added several to the fire, and used a poker to stir the coals, watching absentmindedly as sparks flew up the chimney and out of sight.  
  
Once the room began to grow warmer, Dimhirion spoke, "Master Baggins, please move to the other side of the bed."  
  
Bilbo did as he was asked, and situated himself on the opposite side of Frodo's bed, closer to the window.  
  
The elf gestured for Fosco to take Bilbo's place, and then instructed the healer to slip his arms beneath Frodo's shoulders.  
  
"This is going to hurt him," Dimhirion warned, "Though I will try to be quick. I am afraid it is necessary that I do this, and he needs to be coherent enough to tell me when my touch hurts him. Mr. Fields, please lift Frodo's upper body carefully, and turn him onto his back. I will take the lower portion. Let us try to lift and turn at the same time, he doesn't need the added discomfort of having his midsection twisted."  
  
Fosco nodded, tightening his grip beneath the hobbit-lads arms.  
  
Frodo whimpered as he felt hands being laid upon him, though it still hadn't occurred to him what they planned to do.  
  
"Hold on, Frodo. . ." Bilbo soothed, stroking the child's damp forehead.  
  
Fosco and Dimhirion lifted Frodo's body simultaneously and gently placed the small hobbit on his back. Frodo gasped in pain, and immediately began to struggle beneath their hands. Any movement at all was nearly unbearable, but being forced to lie on his back was torturous for the sick lad. His breaths became shallower as the strain of lying on his back weakened his resolve to bear the pain in silence. He pushed the back of his head into his pillow as hard as he could, and bit his lip to keep from crying out, he felt familiar hands, Bilbo's hands, grip his, and he gripped back tightly. His whole body shook from chill and pain.  
  
"Frodo," Dimhirion soothed, gathering an extra pillow to place beneath the child's knees, hoping to ease the strain on his sore belly, "Frodo, please try to relax. I'm going to make this as quick as possible." He placed a gentle hand the hobbit-lads chest. His eyes widened in dismay as he felt Frodo's heart racing, it wasn't a good sign.  
  
"Help me get this off of him," the Elf requested of Fosco, and together they pulled the sweat-soaked nightshift up above Frodo's middle and then over his head. Dimhirion quickly covered the child's lower half with his blankets, and stood back, regarding the hobbit-lad's belly.  
  
Dimhirion's gaze strayed to Frodo's face. The elf could see two wide, blue eyes, robbed of their former brightness, staring back at him in apprehension.  
  
"What. . . are y- you. . . going to d- do?" the small hobbit panted, his voice strained and barely a whisper.  
  
The Elf's expression softened, and he went to the lad's side. "Frodo," he began, smoothing back the wet curls with one hand, "Please trust me. I will not hurt you, though what I'm about to do will cause you pain." He saw fear grow in the child's eyes, they glistened with unshed tears.  
  
"Bilbo. . ." Frodo cried weakly, his voice breaking, "Bil- bo!" he forced the last half out, groaning as he felt the pain intensify again. Though through it all, the small hobbit never shifted his gaze from the suspicious Elf.  
  
Dimhirion sighed; he needed Frodo to relax if he were going to attempt to save him. "Frodo!" he called loudly, silencing all other activity in the room, "Frodo. . .shh. . ." he soothed, stroking the child's cheek methodically and trying to calm his nerves.  
  
Dimhirion then instructed Bilbo to hold the lad's arms by his sides, and sooth him as much as he could. He instructed Fosco to keep an eye on his legs, though he doubted Frodo had the strength to kick them much, he couldn't be sure how Frodo would react to the pain that he may inflict while examining him.  
  
He walked down to where he stood just over Frodo's abdomen, and then he knelt beside the low bed and put two hands out, allowing them to hover just above the hobbit's belly. The elf shook his head sadly as he felt the heat radiating from Frodo's body. Dimhirion slowly lowered his hands, barely making contact with the hobbit's stomach. He felt Frodo flinch beneath his hands, and the lad's shallow breaths quickened.  
  
Bilbo fought to keep Frodo from interfering with Dimhirion's examination. The lad struggled hard to free both hands. Frodo whined miserably and tested Bilbo by forcing his hands up as hard as he was able before finally giving up.  
  
The elf applied a small amount of pressure to Frodo's abdomen, feeling carefully for anything strange.  
  
Bilbo nearly cried as he saw the agony reflected in Frodo's eyes. The small hobbit clenched his teeth and turned his head to face his uncle, his eyes pleading silently for someone to make the pain and uncertainty disappear.  
  
"Shh. . .dear boy, I'm with you." He reassured his lad, rubbing Frodo's hand in a circular motion.  
  
Suddenly Frodo's body tensed, he arched his back on impulse and screamed in pain as the Elf's probing hands suddenly pushed harder on his rigid belly, and quickly let up without warning, right in the area of where the infected organ had burst. The hobbit-lad had nearly blacked out from the pain.  
  
As soon as he caught his breath, Frodo craned his neck around as best he could, trying to see who had brought this new and terrible pain upon him. Bilbo gently forced his head back down, "Don't struggle, Frodo, don't" the older hobbit chided gently, his voice shaking from fear, "please don't, lad, it will only hurt worse if you fight."  
  
Frodo tilted his head as far back as he could, and stared at the rafters of his bedroom ceiling, unable to answer Bilbo, his mouth hung open as he gasped for breath.  
  
Dimhirion repeated the push and release process several more times in several areas of Frodo's abdomen, all of which caused the sick hobbit-lad pain, but none so much as that one area. The Elf knew what was wrong with Frodo. Though never a healer himself, he was learned in their ways, and knew what this illness was, and how difficult it was to treat successfully. He immediately began forming a plan and creating a list of necessary supplies in his head.  
  
"Alright," Dimhirion broke the silence that had settled heavily in the room, he covered Frodo's torso up once more, lifting the child gently and placing him back on his side. He beckoned to Bilbo and Fosco. "I wish to speak with the two of you in the hall, briefly."  
  
Once in the hall, the Elf elaborated on his thoughts about Frodo's condition, "Judging by the feel of his abdomen, and the area which causes him the greatest pain, I believe that you were correct in your guessing, Master Fields." Dimhirion reported.  
  
"Oh, no!" Fosco cried, all the color draining from his face. His worst fears had at last been confirmed, and by one of the Fair Folk, no less. "Is there. . . anything you can do for him?" the healer pleaded, his eyes searching Dimhirions'.  
  
Bilbo swayed, unable to speak, and leaned heavily against the wall. Hearing this news all over again, after he had worked so hard to find someone who might could help. made the impact of Dimhirion's words that much harder on the old hobbit.  
  
Dimhirion sighed, "The only thing I can do for him, is try to remove this organ." He admitted, "It will not be an easy task, I'm afraid. The pieces of it, where it burst, will have to be recovered and removed as well." He continued, watching the hobbits pale further, "The contents of the organ will also have to be removed, and his insides flushed clean with salty water." Dimhirion added, "It will be very traumatic, and possibly painful, for him. I do not know what strength reserves he has, though judging by his appearance, I don't hold out much hope for his recovery, this procedure will be quite a shock to his system. . ." he paused, allowing this grim news to sink in, "Though anything is possible, the little one clearly possesses much strength to have survived as long as he has. I do not wish to discourage you, though I also do not believe it is wise to raise one's hope's so high when the odds are so unfairly against Frodo." Dimhirion continued, ". . . I do want to try to save him, though I will also understand if you simply wish to let him live out the rest of his time without added stress. . .though I can assure you that won't be very much longer."  
  
Bilbo stared ahead, his mind was elsewhere, and he looked at Frodo's small cloak where it hung on the coat-rack in the foyer, just where he had left it two nights before. Finally, the old bachelor nodded slowly, "Yes. . ." he said with tears in his eyes as he turned to face Dimhirion, "Yes, we must try. We mustn't give up when there is hope."  
  
Fosco nodded in agreement, he wanted to see Frodo recover, though he was learned in the ways of healing, and he held out little more hope than the Elf. Perhaps what hope he did reserve was only there because of his strong desire to see the child live.  
  
"Now," Dimhirion turned to Fosco, "I would greatly appreciate it if you would fetch a few things for me. . .write all of this down." Fosco gathered an inkwell and pen, and a scrap of parchment, then Dimhirion began listing the needed supplies: "I will need a sharp knife, the sharpest you can find; several sturdy, hollow pond-reed's; towels, bandages; and, more Opium if you have it to be spared, the procedure will be extremely painful without the proper amount of pain-numbing herbs. . .and bring anything else you believe may be useful." The Elf finished; he was unfamiliar with their culture and what tools they used during surgeries and knew that some improvising would, unfortunately, be inevitable. Then he turned to Bilbo, "You must stay with Frodo, it is imperative that he remain as calm as possible, and you're the person he trusts most, I believe he would be most calm with you caring for him." Dimhirion smiled slightly, despite the gravity of the situation.  
  
Bilbo nodded vigorously, "Yes. I wouldn't dream of leaving him."  
  
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Frodo moaned as he was lifted from bed, sharp pains shot relentlessly through his tender abdomen. He felt someone carrying him again; he was so delirious from pain and fever that he wasn't quite sure of where he was or what was going on.  
  
Then he smelled the familiar scent of the drug that Fosco had given him the previous day. He felt someone forcing his mouth shut, instructing him to breathe as deeply as he could, through his nose. He struggled to comply, breathing shallowly at first, and then as the medication began working, his breaths evened out and became deeper. Soon, the pain let up and he sighed with relief.  
  
"Hold him up, in a standing position," Dimhirion instructed Fosco, "It must collect in one place."  
  
Dimhirion had noted that Frodo's abdomen was been quite bloated from infection, and he meant to drain some of that infection off before attempting to remove the ruptured organ.  
  
After a while of standing, Fosco began sweating from the effort of holding Frodo up, though the lad was small for his age, he was still a half grown hobbit and Fosco was supporting all of the child's weight. Frodo whimpered, feeling nausea beset him once more.  
  
Dimhirion noticed the lad pale, and quickly carried Frodo back to bed, propping him up against the headboard so the fluid would remain in one area of his abdomen.  
  
He tried to ease the lad's nausea; it wouldn't be good if Frodo began vomiting. His spell from earlier was rather violent and he had mildly injured himself, likely no more than a few scratches in his throat, partially contributed to by the repeated action of vomiting, though nonetheless, he could not afford to damage his throat further if it could be avoided.  
  
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A/N: Thanks for reading! :) Let me know what you think! 


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: So, so sorry I haven't updated in so long! :( I hope you all can find it in your hearts to forgive my negligence towards my two fics. School just seems to be taking most of my time away from me! Evil nasssty school. . . ssstealing my preciouss- free time, cruel, trickssy school. . .;) But I lovess the professorss, keepers of the preciousss 4.0 gpa. ;)  
  
*Cough* Please forgive my Gollum moment. (lol) :)  
  
Thank you all for your kind reviews, though I know that I hardly deserve them after I went and left the story hanging the way I did, for so long too. But it is so encouraging to know that people are reading and enjoying my fic. :)  
  
Again, I apologize for making you all wait, and hope that you haven't completely lost interest in the fic! Now here's the next part. . .  
  
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Chapter 12:  
  
Dimhirion glanced to where Bilbo stood, beside the head of Frodo's bed. The elderly hobbit was white as a sheet, and the Elf could see him trembling from the realization that he could likely lose his dear nephew soon.  
  
"Master Baggins," he began, "Please, sit down on the bed, sit behind Frodo if you like. I believe your presence would be a comfort to him." The Elf tried to smile.  
  
Bilbo nodded, and Dimhirion assisted him in climbing up onto the bed. The Elf lifted Frodo's slight form up enough so that Bilbo could slip behind and sit up against the headboard. Dimhirion eased the lad back into his uncle's arms, with hardly any protest on Frodo's part, and then turned to Fosco.  
  
"Mr. Fields, please produce the blades," he asked of the hobbit healer. Fosco nodded cautiously, and dipped a hand into his small bag, bringing forth several knives. All of the knives were inferior to most that Dimhirion had ever dealt with. None among them were of Elven make, and the blades were quite dull in comparison to the aforementioned variety. Dimhirion picked up the largest of the three blades, smaller even than an Elven paring knife. The Elf had to remind himself that these tools were those of the Shire-Folk, and suited this case well, considering it was one of the Shire-Folk who the blade was meant for.  
  
The Elf ran a finger across the sharp edge of the knife, frowning at the bluntness of it. It would have to do; there wasn't time to find another knife. He had to work fast, while the drug's influence still lay heavily upon Frodo. Though the painkiller wasn't likely to block all pain, it would certainly dilute it a great deal. Dimhirion wanted to spare the child any pain he could, and felt sure that the sharp cutting pain from the blade would terrify the lad if he should become aware of it during the course of the operation.  
  
Bilbo sat behind Frodo, talking absentmindedly to the child as he stroked his nephew's wet, dark-brown locks, "That's a good lad," he whispered into Frodo's small, pointed ear, "You're going to be just fine, Frodo, just fine." Bilbo promised. If the hobbits' words had possessed great healing powers then Frodo would have been well fivefold.  
  
Frodo nodded vaguely in response; thankfully he was still too sedated by the drug to understand much of what was going on. All the hobbit-lad was really aware of was that his dear uncle was with him, and the terrible pain in his abdomen had subsided.  
  
Dimhirion approached the bed slowly, knife in hand, and Fosco right on his heels. "Bilbo?" the Elf asked quietly, "We're ready to begin,"  
  
Bilbo looked up suddenly, roused from his tranquil state, "Yes. . . let us not wait any longer." He nodded vigorously, "I want this to be over as soon as possible."  
  
Dimhirion nodded in agreement, "Alright then, now you hold him. I don't know how he may react to the sting of the knife should he feel any pain from it."  
  
Bilbo paled, gathering his beloved nephew in his arms and sliding him forward a little so that Frodo was in a semi-reclining position. Dimhirion bared the hobbit-lads belly, and called for Fosco to place towels all around him in the bed to catch the blood.  
  
Carefully, Dimhirion positioned the knife just above Frodo's belly, steadying his hand and focusing all of his concentration on the task at hand. Though the concepts of this operation were not wholly new to him, he had never cut into one so small, or in such a precarious state.  
  
He lowered the knife slowly, easily piercing Frodo's tender flesh in an area more towards the middle lower portion of the child's abdomen, in the area where he hoped the infected fluid had gathered. That was the purpose of the earlier exercise, which involved Fosco holding the lad upright, to gather the infected fluids inside of Frodo's abdominal cavity into one place so that they might be drained more easily. Removing the ruptured organ alone, without draining the infection- the cause of the illness in the first place- would be folly, Dimhirion knew.  
  
Blood began to seep up around the knife blade as Dimhirion widened the incision. Bilbo was forced to look away, the sight of his dear lad's blood leaking from the hole in his belly made the old hobbit sick on his stomach. Frodo gasped as he felt the Elf's nimble hands pulling back layers of flesh and fat, trying to get to the muscles of Frodo's abdominal wall. Bilbo held him still, whispering comforting words into the frightened child's ear.  
  
Fosco hovered closely around the Elf, trying to learn all he could of the technique Dimhirion was employing.  
  
Bright red blood was smeared across the majority of Frodo's rigid belly; it followed the contours of his body, pooling lazily in some areas, and then finally trickling off in little red rivers onto the sheets and towels that lay beside him.  
  
At last, Dimhirion was able to get a clear view of his next target: the wall of muscle that stood between him and the deadly infection within Frodo's body.  
  
Frodo whimpered, gripping Bilbo's hand tightly as Dimhirion began a diagonal cut in the thick muscle. Frodo was no longer so oblivious to his surroundings or what was being done to him; he had now lost the pleasant sense of calm that he had been enjoying. The powerful drug Fosco had given him helped, but the cut of the knife's inferior blade still hurt as it delved deeper into the layers of muscle.  
  
Dimhirion's expression hardened, and he pushed down hard on the handle of the knife; forcing it through the tough muscle, bring forth a pitiful cry from Frodo and spilling more of the child's blood in the process. At last, a sickening pop signaled that the Elf's goal had been reached.  
  
Dimhirion was relieved to have finally broken through to the infection. He gently squeezed the area around the incision, drawing blood-tainted pus from the wound.  
  
Frodo strained his neck in an attempt to see what was being done to him. He could feel the sticky wetness of his own blood as it ran down his sides. The foul smell of the milky, infected liquids, mixed with the coppery scent of blood seeping from his abdomen caused the hobbit-child to gag. Bilbo held fast to Frodo's head, keeping it firmly in his lap and stroking the child's cheeks gently in an attempt to sooth him.  
  
Dimhirion requested a hollow reed from Fosco's bag, and eased it down into the hole in Frodo's belly. He probed around with it before finding what he believed to be an appropriate spot and left it there.  
  
Frodo moaned quietly, struggling weakly to push Dimhirion away as the Elf lifted him from the bed and turned Frodo onto his side so that the infection might drain more easily and quickly. It was very risky leaving him open for any amount of time; Dimhirion hoped that the pus would leave the hobbit-lad's body without any trouble, so that he could begin the next phase of the operation.  
  
Bilbo still sat on Frodo's bed, holding the child's head in his lap. By now, the drugs' effects were just beginning to wear off, and Frodo felt the pain returning. He sucked in a sharp breath and attempted to curl up, seeking relief from the pain.  
  
"Easy, lad, lie still now," Bilbo shushed.  
  
"What happened, Bilbo?" Frodo whispered through clenched teeth, looking at his uncle with large blue eyes, wide with fear.  
  
"Nothing, lad, nothing at all. Dimhirion is helping to heal you, you must cooperate if you wish to be well again soon." Bilbo forced a smile, "Just a little while longer now, and you shall be getting some more medicine for the pain." He promised, "Just try to bear it for a little while longer."  
  
"I'll try. . ." Frodo whispered, his hoarse voice barely audible. He closed his eyes again, wishing that sleep would come to whisk him away from his painful existence.  
  
Dimhirion knelt on the floor beside Frodo; he placed a pan beneath the reed, pleased to see that it was just beginning to leak fluid. He placed two hands carefully on Frodo's belly and pressed gently, watching as the flow of pus coming from the drain increased.  
  
Frodo let out a stifled cry and reached out to grab the Elf's hands. "Stop," he pleaded, his tiny hands gripping the Elf's forearm, "It hurts terribly, please stop. . ." Frodo begged, tears beginning to well up in his eyes once more.  
  
"Shh. . .little one, I know this isn't easy to bear, though it must be done." Dimhirion said.  
  
Frodo swallowed and shook his head, "No. Please, if this is what must be done to keep me alive, then I welcome the relief that death will surely bring." He panted, struggling to hold onto consciousness as the pain intensified. Though this time it was accompanied by a new pain, a sharper pain in another part of his belly. The feeling of it made Frodo's heart sink, was there ever going to be any relief? Would he ever be free from such tortures again? "I feel sick. . ." he added, his voice so weak only the Elf's keen ears heard it.  
  
Dimhirion felt great concern for the lad. Frodo could no longer bear the pain, the potent smell of the infection that drained from his abdomen, and the sight of his own blood. It was far too much for anyone to have to bear, let alone an innocent child. The shock of it all would likely kill him before any infection he may contract during the procedure had the chance to do so. The Elf put a cool hand on Frodo's burning forehead and held it there. He utilized all of the techniques he remembered from his training, working to ease Frodo's pain and calm his nerves.  
  
The hobbit-child visibly relaxed beneath Dimhirions skilled hands. His shallow breaths lengthened ever so slightly, and his grip on the Elf's arm loosened.  
  
Bilbo bent down to kiss his nephew's brow, promising silently that if Frodo survived this, he would never fret too much over a sneeze or scratched knee again.  
  
"Mr. Fields, please fetch a basin of hot water, and some salt, if you will." Dimhirion asked Fosco.  
  
The hobbit healer nodded, and turned to leave. He stopped in his tracks as a blood-curdling scream tore through the silence of the room like a sharp hatchet through kindling-wood.  
  
Frodo struggled fiercely to escape Bilbo's grasp, his small body arched repeatedly as he tried to escape. The reed protruding from his abdomen was dislodged and fell into the bowl, knocking it to the floor. Dimhirion was forced to hold Frodo down to keep him from hurting himself or Bilbo.  
  
Without asking, the Elf knew that the pain had in fact become too great to bear; it was driving the hobbit-child out of his mind.  
  
Fosco rushed to the bedside, hoping to be of some help. Dimhirion turned him away and bade him heat water quickly. "Fosco, you can't be of any use here." Dimhirion talked hurriedly, "Go. Heat a large pan of water, and bring the saltcellar. He cannot go on like this for much longer; we have less time than I thought.  
  
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A/N: Thanks for reading! :) Let me know what you think. 


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Please accept my apologies for leaving you all hanging for so long. I know there's absolutely no excuse for it, so to make up for my lack of updates, I am going to finish and upload the rest of this fic before Tuesday evening. I've already got Chapter 14 written, and I will post it when Chapter 15 is done, and so on, until I run out of fic. :) So, there will be multiple updates within the next day and a half or so, and the fic will be finished.  
  
When I started this in June, I had no idea that my slow updates would lead to it running past September! ;) Yikes! So, again I apologize for the slow updates!  
  
Rosie Cotton: I'm honored that you've put my story on your favorites list. :) Thank you!  
  
For everyone who asked if Frodo is going to be all right: Don't worry too much! ;) It'll be ok. :)  
  
A huge thanks to everyone who read/reviewed the last chapter, you're all wonderful!  
  
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Chapter 13:  
  
When Dimhirion had finally regained control of the situation it was mid- afternoon, and he beckoned Fosco back into the room.  
  
For the moment, Frodo was finally at rest. Bilbo sat cradling the hobbit- lad's head and humming softly to him.  
  
Dimhirion looked pityingly on the scene before him: the elderly hobbit struggling to remain hopeful despite the slim chance that Frodo would survive. At the other end of the spectrum was a much younger hobbit, lying in a tangle of blood-soiled sheets and barely conscious. Even for an Elf who had lived thousands of years and witnessed many sorrows, this sight was a heartbreaking one to behold. Nonetheless, Dimhirion admired the dedication of Bilbo, and the spirit of his young nephew.  
  
"Master Fields," the Elf uttered quietly, not tearing his gaze away from the two hobbits, "Have you the water I requested?"  
  
"Yes, 'tis right here." Fosco approached the bed tentatively. The healer shook his head at seeing all of the blood. A considerable amount of it had been smeared onto the sheets and floor during Frodo's earlier episode. "Perhaps," Fosco broke the silence, "We should clean up a bit?"  
  
Dimhirion raised a hand in protest, "Not just yet, Fosco. There's more work that must be done." He took the bowl from Fosco and poured some of the salty mixture into a pitcher that sat on Frodo's nightstand.  
  
The Elf lifted the pitcher from its place beside Frodo's bed and looked to Bilbo before going any further. "Master Baggins," he began, "please keep him still, this may aggravate his wound."  
  
Bilbo nodded knowingly, and tightened his grip on Frodo's limp body. The elderly hobbit watched cautiously as Dimhirion tilted the pitcher of salt water slowly, just until a small stream of the liquid was trickling out of the jug. Bilbo could feel Frodo tense as the salty mixture filtered into the opening in his body. "Oh, poor lad," Bilbo soothed, "just hold on, I'll not leave you." He stroked Frodo's limp hair, and squeezed the small hand that had begun groping helplessly at his own.  
  
"Bilbo," Frodo whimpered, his voice cracking slightly, "It. . .it burns." He gasped, tightening his hold on Bilbo's arm, his blue eyes widened from the pain.  
  
"Easy now, Frodo-lad. I know it stings, just try to bear it a little longer now." Bilbo whispered in an attempt to comfort his lad.  
  
Frodo nodded, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. Bilbo noticed the few tears that seeped out of the corners of Frodo's closed eyes, and he nearly began to cry himself, "You're so brave, Frodo, such a brave lad." Bilbo whispered.  
  
After the salt water had soaked for a few minutes, Dimhirion began to draw the mixture out using a clean cloth. He nodded approvingly at seeing the rag soiled with less blood, and little infection. It was a good sign: the process of draining Frodo's abdominal cavity of infection, and then washing it with a mild salt solution, appeared to have removed most of the built up infection. The next obstacle, thought the Elf, was to remove the source of the infection. Hopefully the surgery wouldn't prove too taxing for Frodo in his already weakened state.  
  
"He should be in less pain now," Dimhirion announced unexpectedly, "draining the infection alleviated some of the pressure I believe." He smiled slightly at Bilbo.  
  
The old hobbit returned a grateful, albeit shaky, smile. Bilbo was relieved that at least his dear boy wasn't in so much pain now.  
  
"Fosco, if you don't mind, could you please fetch one of the needles I asked you to bring?" The Elf inquired.  
  
"Yes, of course." answered Fosco, and he turned to Frodo's dresser where the medical supplies were organized. The hobbit-healer selected what he thought would be the right tools for the job: a sharp needle, and a small spool of fine thread.  
  
Dimhirion took the needle from Fosco, examining it carefully. It was well enough made, and small enough for the job. But he deemed the thread unacceptable, it was much too coarse to be used on one so small, and would worsen the scar that would result inevitably as well.  
  
Dimhirion handed the inferior thread back to Fosco, and pulled out one of his own hairs: almost as fine as spun Mithril, and nearly as strong.  
  
Fosco suppressed a gasp at that, never had he seen someone attempt to use his own hair as thread to stitch up an incision. Doing such a thing was considered almost barbaric, and unclean; it was something that should only be done under dire circumstances. Yet, the stunned hobbit could not find his voice to question Dimhirion, and thought it best not to doubt one of the Fair Folk regarding his healing skills.  
  
Dimhirion frowned, and winced inwardly when he realized that he hadn't anything to numb the pain. There was the opium burner that Fosco had set up by the hearth, but it would be far too risky to move Frodo. Movement could cause the bleeding to start again, or perhaps lead to complications with infection later on.  
  
Fosco seemed to be thinking the same thing as the Elf, "I beg your pardon, sir," he questioned tentatively, "but you can't stitch the lad up without something to numb the area." He pointed out, his voice ending a note higher than it had begun, as though the very thought of not numbing Frodo's belly frightened him.  
  
Dimhirion nodded, "Certainly not. What have you that will aid in keeping the pain at bay?" but then his eyes lit up, "Oh!" he smiled, "Yes, the Dwaleberry lotion!"  
  
Fosco looked questioningly at the Elf, cocking his head to one side, "I'm not sure I know what you're talking about."  
  
Dimhirion walked wordlessly to Fosco's bag, and searched through the supplies quickly. Soon he found what he sought: a small glass jar containing a dark colored lotion. "This," he announced, pointing to the container, "This is Dwaleberry lotion. It will suffice." He smiled, and returned to Frodo's bedside.  
  
Fosco's eyes lit up with recognition, "Oh! If you had told me you were looking for Belladonna ointment, then I would've known what you were talking about."  
  
"Yes," Dimhirion nodded slowly as he began to unscrew the jar lid, "Among my people the plant is known as Dwaleberry, we make it into a lotion of sorts and it has been known to lessen pain when applied to the skin. It matters not though, as long as it eases the little ones pain." He looked down on Frodo, who had become more aware of his surroundings. It was clear that draining the infection had reduced his pain, though his situation was still precarious. The Elf then began gently smearing the lotion all around the lower portion of Frodo's abdomen where the incision had been made. He wanted to be sure that the entire affected area was as numb as possible in order to spare the child any unnecessary pain.  
  
Dimhirion caught the look of fear that lay hidden in Bilbo's eyes. The old hobbit had tried to mask his increasing fear for Frodo's life, yet the grief in his gray eyes belayed his confident expression. "Don't worry, Bilbo", the Elf promised, "I will be quick."  
  
Bilbo nodded grimly, and turned Frodo's face towards his own and held it there, lest the lad would see the needle. Bilbo frowned as he realized that Frodo's fever hadn't gone down, and the hobbit-child was still sweating quite a bit.  
  
Dimhirion gently pushed the needle into Frodo's flesh, and then pulled it through, reinserting it on the other side of the incision; he then continued to stitch as quickly as he safely could.  
  
Frodo felt the pressure of the needle, though thankfully he didn't realize what was being done. He struggled to free himself from Bilbo's arms in order to see what was going on, but his uncle gently restrained him, smoothing back the dark curls that clung to his damp forehead.  
  
"Shh. . .rest now, Frodo-lad." Bilbo shushed his nephew, planting a single kiss on Frodo's brow, "It'll all be over soon, you shall see." Bilbo smiled, mustering all of his courage and displaying it to the sick tween.  
  
Dimhirion continued to work swiftly, closing the gap in Frodo's abdominal wall first, and then the flesh above it. He did however; leave a small gap in both the muscle and flesh in order for the remaining infection to drain easily. The Elf secured a short, hollow reed in the opening and angled it in such a way that infection could drain from the tube.  
  
Dimhirion stood up to admire his work, and requested a damp cloth to remove excess lotion and blood. "It will scar," he said, more to himself than anyone else, "yet that is the least of our concerns, I fear." The Elf shook his head and met Bilbo's gaze. "We're half way to the finish, Master Baggins. Unfortunately the next part is the most dangerous for Frodo." He went silent, wiping his hands on the cloth.  
  
The Elf knelt quietly beside Frodo, turning the small hobbit's face toward him, stroking Frodo's cheek soothingly. "How feel you, Frodo?" Dimhirion smiled warmly, despite the circumstances.  
  
Frodo couldn't gather the strength to return the gesture; he closed his eyes slowly, and opened them again before speaking, "It's. . .it still hurts." He whimpered quietly, his blue eyes focusing momentarily on the Elf, "but I k- know soon it wi- will. . .be ended, either way." He whispered, gasping quietly as a sharp twinge of pain stabbed his abdomen once more. He swallowed hard and turned his head aside just as a low moan escaped his lips, and one small hand sought the area of his stomach that was the source of his pain.  
  
"Either way," Dimhirion thought sadly, knowing what Frodo meant. He rose from Frodo's side, and looked to Bilbo, "Unfortunately the lotion can't prevent all pain. The source of Frodo's suffering has yet to be removed." The Elf added regretfully.  
  
Fosco interrupted Dimhirion's train of thought, "Excuse my interruption, but I believe it would be best if we paused briefly now to clean up."  
  
Dimhirion nodded, "Yes," he said, "Let us clean some of this up, and change the soiled bed linens. Perhaps a brief rest will do us all good, especially the lad."  
  
-------------------------------- A/N: Well, that's Chapter 13 :) As promised, the next chapter should be up some time tonight or early tomorrow. It is written, but I need to finish Chapter 15 before uploading 14. :) I'm trying to stay ahead of myself (lol)! 


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: As promised, here's the next chapter (which means the following one is done as well).  
  
Thank you all so much for the reviews! :) I'm so glad you're still enjoying this story.  
  
Ancalime: Don't worry! :)  
  
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Chapter 14:  
  
Bilbo sat at Frodo's desk as Dimhirion and Fosco worked hastily to change the bed linens. In his grief-stricken state Bilbo realized that he couldn't be of any real help to the two healers, so he agreed to get out of their way. He found a quite spot to sit until they were ready for him to return.  
  
Bilbo noticed that Frodo's desk was cluttered with papers, much like his own. He couldn't help but smile as he thought about how much the two of them had in common. Frodo really was like the son he never had, he certainly considered the lad more of a son than a cousin. Bilbo decided that even if this day was the last they would ever have together, he knew that every moment since Frodo's coming to stay at Bag End earlier that year had been wonderful for both of them; they'd taught each other so much in such a short span of time. Then Bilbo realized that that was why this ordeal was so painful for him: Frodo was everything to him and the though that he might lose his dear lad was unbearable. The child really was more precious to him than any treasure he could dream of. What really hurt Bilbo was knowing that Frodo didn't deserve this, the hobbit-lad had already been through so much in his young life with losing his parents, and then years of struggling, unsuccessfully, to find his niche at Brandy Hall. Why should the boy have had to survive so much, only to succumb to this illness? It just didn't seem fair to Bilbo.  
  
The old hobbit began absentmindedly sifting through a stack of disorganized papers. He soon discovered that these were Frodo's notes for the birthday celebration that the two of them were to have in the coming weeks. Now, it looked as though a celebration would be terribly out of place, so soon after. . . But Bilbo left the thought unfinished.  
  
He never was one to give up while there was still hope, but this ordeal was playing out differently than any other he had ever endured. The elderly bachelor realized then what it really meant to be a parent, to have a young life to look after, to watch grow and mature into the striking gentle- hobbit that little Frodo was surely posed to be. Yet the most tragic thing would be losing that young life, its fire extinguished prematurely by cruel fate.  
  
Frodo's neat script, written in black ink, appeared to blur on the pages as tears seeped into Bilbo's eyes. The old hobbit blinked them back, thinking himself selfish for crying when it was Frodo who was in pain, and Frodo who could very likely lose his life.  
  
As Bilbo continued to look through Frodo's notes he soon found a small sketch, a diagram of sorts. He picked up that particular piece of paper, unique in that it had many measurements written beside the sketches, and amendments to the text, and in some places it was clearly not Frodo's handwriting. Upon reading the print Bilbo determined that it was a diagram of a small footstool that Frodo was working on. He smiled to himself when he thought of his book-loving lad cutting wood and hammering nails, "How odd," thought Bilbo.  
  
Frodo had never openly displayed an interest in woodworking. Bilbo hadn't known that the boy even possessed the knowledge needed to build things such as that.  
  
Upon closer inspection he noticed that on the diagram, written in a flowing script on what was meant to be the seat of the footstool, was his own walking song that he had taught to Frodo earlier that summer, in Westron, yet the script itself was Elvish. "Oh!" Bilbo thought to himself, "How clever it is to inscribe a walking song upon a footstool." He chuckled quietly, it seemed as though his dear lad always found new ways to surprise him.  
  
On the diagram, written where the bottom of the small stool was meant to be, he could see that Frodo had written his own name, and then Bilbo's name with the year beside it and that it was dated "September 22nd".  
  
Then it all fell into place for Bilbo. Obviously the lad had been receiving outside help to build the small piece of furniture. Perhaps it was one of the Gamgee children that had been assisting him, he felt sure that they were learned in such crafts. Then tears came to Bilbo's eyes again, he had been giving Frodo some basic lessons in Elvish, but his skills weren't as advanced as this; at least, Bilbo hadn't thought so.  
  
It was obvious that the lad had spent a great amount of time and care translating Bilbo's walking song from Westron, and then spent additional time learning the skill of carving the characters onto wood. It was clear that he had worked very hard on the project.  
  
Bilbo found it curious that Frodo was planning to give him a birthday gift; it was not common practice for a hobbit to receive gifts on his own birthday. But of course, since Bilbo and Frodo shared the same birthday, the each wound up receiving a gift from the other.  
  
Bilbo smiled through his tears. Frodo was such a bright lad, *his* bright lad.  
  
"Master Baggins?" The old hobbit looked up to find Dimhirion standing over him, "We're going to need your help for a moment."  
  
"Alright," Bilbo answered, rising from his seat at the desk.  
  
He followed Dimhirion to Frodo's bedside, and watched apprehensively as the Elf lifted Frodo gently from the bed.  
  
The hobbit-lad whined in protest, but was quieted by the Elf's soothing voice. Dimhirion laid Frodo down on the hearth where Fosco was waiting with the opium burner.  
  
Bilbo was at Frodo's side in an instant, stroking back the dark locks and comforting his lad as best he could.  
  
Frodo groaned and his breathing became labored as the pain, brought on by being moved, caught up with him, "Bilbo," he cried quietly.  
  
"'Tis all right, Frodo-lad." Bilbo promised. The elderly hobbit noticed with concern that drops of dark-red blood were dripping slowly from the reed that protruded from the incision in Frodo's abdomen, staining the brick hearth a different shade of red.  
  
Dimhirion seemed to notice Bilbo's concern, "I know, Bilbo." He assured the hobbit, "hopefully it will stop once he is still again. But I could not cut Frodo without first giving him something strong for the pain."  
  
"I understand," Bilbo answered, "I would not have wanted you to."  
  
Fosco poured a small amount of the dark liquid onto the heated tile, "Alright, hold him up," the healer announced.  
  
Dimhirion shifted Frodo's body carefully toward the burning apparatus. "Breathe in, little one, deep breaths now." He instructed a barely conscious Frodo.  
  
The hobbit-lad fretted, trying to pull away from the fumes, but Dimhirion held him steady.  
  
Bilbo rubbed his small back gently, and whispered soothingly into the tween's ear, encouraging him to comply, "Please breath Frodo," he pleaded, "Just a little bit, and then you can go back to the bed."  
  
Eventually Frodo began to inhale the vapors. When they believed he had inhaled enough of the fumes, Dimhirion lifted the limp body and carried it back to the bed. The Elf instructed Bilbo to climb back onto the bed and sit behind Frodo.  
  
Dimhirion deposited Frodo's body onto the mattress so that he was lying flat, and hoped that it would help stop the bleeding. He noticed with great concern that Frodo's face had gone deathly pale, and his lips carried an almost bluish tint.  
  
"Master Fields," Dimhirion began, "Please boil some water for tea-- dandelion tea, and add some honey so it won't taste so bitter." He continued, "we may lose Frodo if he doesn't take some liquids soon." Whether the lad could keep anything down or not was also a concern, but they had to at least try.  
  
The hobbit-healer nodded, and left the room heading towards the kitchen.  
  
While Fosco saw to preparing the tea, Dimhirion spoke with Bilbo, "Master Baggins," he started, "I won't begin without your consent, but before you agree there are some things you need to be aware of."  
  
Bilbo paled slightly, but nodded for the Elf to proceed.  
  
Dimhirion looked down at Frodo and then began speaking, "Regardless of whether I continue with this operation, it is still very likely-or rather, there is a considerable chance, that Frodo could die. What we have already done today is, no doubt, quite a shock to his body, especially since he is already so weak-notice the pallor of his skin, and the tint of his lips, I am afraid it doesn't bode well." Dimhirion frowned, "If conditions were favorable, I would allow him to rest for a day or more between surgeries, but unfortunately time is not something we can spare." He continued, meeting Bilbo's eyes, "There is also the chance that he could lose too much blood, or die from infection. He has already lost more than I would like to see, and the more difficult operation still looms ahead of us." Dimhirion paused, allowing time for the news to sink in, "Of these things you must be aware, before I begin." Dimhirion shifted his gaze back to Frodo, and began gently stroking the soft hair on top of the lad's feet, "There are no guarantees."  
  
Bilbo nodded slowly, "I understand. At least, by doing this, we give him a chance." The old hobbit added, his eyes filling with tears once more. It was terrible to feel so helpless.  
  
Dimhirion nodded in agreement, "Yes, otherwise all hope would be lost." The Elf sighed, "He should feel little pain, if any," Dimhirion added, changing the subject, "Though I must work quickly to ensure that he does not."  
  
Bilbo turned Frodo's face to his, and watched helplessly as the lad's blue eyes struggled unsuccessfully to focus on him. Frodo opened his mouth to speak, but Bilbo stopped him, "No lad, don't try to speak," he bit his lip to keep from sobbing, "I'm here with you, it's going to be all right, dear Frodo-lad." Bilbo promised, "Don't be afraid," Bilbo continued, attempting to quell the child's fears with his voice.  
  
Shortly after the conversation between Bilbo and Dimhirion, Fosco returned with the kettle of tea and a cup. "This is a bit hot, I'm afraid," Fosco admitted.  
  
Bilbo quickly recognized the smell of dandelion tea and wrinkled his nose, "Why dandelions?" asked the hobbit.  
  
Dimhirion smiled wryly at Bilbo and answered, "Dandelion is an herb used to purify-meaning, it will help to clean Frodo's body of the infection." He paused, "Oh, I know the taste is bitter, that is why I requested that Fosco bring honey."  
  
"I see," Bilbo replied, amazed to discover that something as unpleasant as dandelion could possibly serve any useful purpose.  
  
"Here," Dimhirion began to pour some of the bitter tea into a waiting cup. "I'll taste it," he blew on the steaming liquid, and put the cup to his lips. The two hobbits almost chuckled upon seeing Dimhirion grimace at the taste of the tea. "I think it needs a bit more honey. . ." he admitted.  
  
Fosco nodded vigorously, and produced a small container of the sweet substance.  
  
"I cannot make it too sweet though, I fear Frodo's stomach may not be able to handle such things right now. Yet he may not be able to keep it down in any case. . . we shall see."  
  
When Dimhirion was finally satisfied with the taste of the tea, he motioned for Bilbo to raise Frodo's head slightly so that he might drink some.  
  
"Come now, Frodo-lad," Bilbo whispered, "This will help make you feel well again."  
  
Frodo whimpered when he felt Bilbo moving him, "I d. . .don't want any. . . any tea, uncle." He managed.  
  
"Shh. . .now lad, this will help. I promise." Bilbo assured Frodo, as he helped the hobbit-lad to sit up.  
  
Frodo's breaths came in ragged gasps, the effort of moving had almost proven too great for the sick tween and Bilbo had to support his head to keep it from drooping to the side.  
  
Dimhirion gently pressed the cup to Frodo's lips, instructing the lad to drink as much as he could.  
  
Frodo recognized the smell of the tea, and puckered his lips in anticipation of the bitter taste.  
  
"Don't worry, little one," the Elf promised, "It has been sweetened to your liking."  
  
Frodo nodded gratefully before taking a small sip. He swallowed carefully before taking another. Bilbo was relieved to see the hobbit-child getting at least some liquid, though it was far from what he should have had, something was better than nothing, Bilbo decided.  
  
By the time Frodo pushed the cup away, it was nearly half empty; and Bilbo didn't dare press him to take more than he would, for fear that he would lose what he had.  
  
"That's a good lad, Frodo." He smiled, "just let me know when you're ready for more."  
  
Frodo nodded weakly, "Thank you Bilbo," he whispered.  
  
"Let us not postpone this any longer," said Dimhirion, "if we don't hasten to complete the surgery he may experience pain during the procedure."  
  
"Yes, you are right," Bilbo admitted, stroking his lad's curls once more, "I'm ready."  
  
With that, Dimhirion pushed the waiting knife carefully into Frodo's belly, just to the left of his right hipbone. If the lad survived, he would have two scars as a reminder of the illness.  
  
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A/N: All right, that's 14. Chapter 15 will be uploaded when 16 is done. :) Let me know what you think! 


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: Here's Chapter 15! :) It's a little late, but I will still be meeting my deadline for tomorrow night. Look for Chapter 16 to be up late tonight or sometime tomorrow morning. :)  
  
Thank you all for continuing to leave wonderful reviews! :)  
  
Shirebound: An epilogue is a wonderful idea. :) Perhaps I could tie it in somehow with "Remember", and thank you *so* much for your wonderful review of that mini-fic. :)  
  
A Elbereth: Wow! That's a lot of paper. :) I'm so happy that you are enjoying the story, thank you for the compliments! :)  
  
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Chapter 15:  
  
Dimhirion worked quickly and carefully, cutting through the layers of Frodo's flesh, right down to the muscle.  
  
Frodo felt pressure being applied to his belly, but thankfully he felt no pain. He wasn't entirely sure if he was awake at all, or even still alive. The sensation of being cut was a surreal and frightening feeling for the tween.  
  
Once the outer layer of Frodo's flesh was safely pulled away, exposing the muscle of his abdominal wall, Dimhirion began to make a diagonal cut in the muscle. The Elf proceeded carefully so as not to puncture anything that oughtn't be disturbed. The muscle was tough, and he was forced to apply more pressure just to break through a small section.  
  
Frodo jumped when he felt the knife pop through, it was a strange feeling and one he hoped not to experience ever again. The hobbit-lad wished to know what was being done to him, but thankfully Bilbo restrained the child successfully.  
  
Bilbo stroked the lads dark mop of hair in an attempt to comfort him, "Shush now Frodo-lad," he soothed, "try not to think about it." He continued, uttering the last part more for his benefit than Frodo's.  
  
Frodo reached up and put his hand in Bilbo's, squeezing it lightly. The gesture strengthened Bilbo's heart; he was relieved to know that the lad was still coherent.  
  
"Could you fetch me fresh towels please, Fosco?" asked Dimhirion, shaking his head in concern. There was more blood than he had anticipated; he hoped the flow would lessen soon.  
  
Fosco returned with several towels, and the Elf put each to good use, discarding them into the pile of soiled linens when they became too bloodied.  
  
A quiet sob escaped Frodo's lips and he spoke quietly to Bilbo, "Please, just st. . .stop," the hobbit-child pleaded. He could feel the stickiness of his own blood as it leaked from the incision, and he smelled the coppery scent of the substance as Dimhirion continued to cut. Tears began to trail down Frodo's cheeks, "it doesn't matter anymore, Bilbo." He shook his head weakly, "I don- don't care about getting w- well."  
  
"You mustn't talk like that, lad." Bilbo answered firmly, frightened by Frodo's apparent resignation to his fate, "You're going to be just fine, Frodo. You'll see. By this time next week you'll be up and about and healthy as ever." Bilbo promised, looking earnestly into Frodo's tear- filled eyes.  
  
The hobbit-child shook his head, "No, no. . .I can't, Bilbo." He whispered.  
  
Bilbo cradled the child close to him, kissing the tip of his small nose. He hadn't any words left to say to the boy.  
  
Fosco watched nervously as Dimhirion widened the gap in Frodo's abdomen. He used another towel to soak up the fluids inside, "Please fetch another candle," the Elf requested unexpectedly. The afternoon was wearing down into evening, and it was difficult to see well in Frodo's little room as the shadows lengthened, even for an Elf.  
  
Fosco quickly retrieved another candle, and held it as steady as possible next to where Dimhirion stood working.  
  
"Ai. . ." said the Elf, "This is what I've been looking for. This is what's caused the little one such pain."  
  
Fosco peered over to get a closer look at what was being done. The hobbit- healer only hoped that by watching the procedure he could retain enough information to be able to successfully perform the operation in the future, should the need arise.  
  
The source of Frodo's illness appeared to be fairly small: it was in the form of a loop, which had clearly ruptured, emptying its infected contents into his abdominal cavity. More infection was beginning to build up in the area.  
  
"Fosco, please fetch a small knife from the supplies." Dimhirion requested, an urgent tone to his voice. He used the blade of the larger knife to carefully lift up the ruptured organ, trying to discern where exactly the loop was joined to Frodo's insides.  
  
Fosco returned quickly with a small knife and handed it to the Elf. Dimhirion made a cut in the tissue, separating the end of the organ from the rest of Frodo's insides. As soon as the ruptured mass was free, blood began to pool rapidly in the area where the cut had been made.  
  
"Quickly bring the salt mixture," Dimhirion instructed Fosco.  
  
The hobbit healer nodded, paling slightly at the sight of so much blood, something he was unaccustomed to. He fetched the pitcher of water from Frodo's nightstand, and pushed it unceremoniously into the Elf's waiting hands.  
  
Dimhirion began to pour the solution into the opening in Frodo's belly, "More towels," the Elf dictated, not looking up from his work.  
  
Fosco quickly retrieved several more clean towels from the dwindling stack, and set them down beside Dimhirion. The Elf picked up a towel and began to sop up the blood tainted salt water that had begun to pour from the opening in Frodo's body. Dimhirion creased his brow in worry, murmuring to himself, "there's just so much of it," he shook his head in dismay.  
  
When the bleeding finally slowed, Dimhirion dried out the wound as best as he could. He checked for any remaining debris left from when the organ burst. Using another of his own fine hairs, he sewed up the end of the stump where the organ had once sat, and then proceeded to rinse the cavity with salt water once more, patting it gently dry.  
  
He requested a fresh needle from Fosco, and then began to carefully stitch the wall of muscle back together-he stitched it double to ensure that the muscle would heal properly, and to prevent weaknesses. Leaving a very small gap to allow infection to drain, he began stitching the outer layer of Frodo's flesh, carefully so as not to create excess scaring. He then inserted another hollow reed to aid in the draining process, and stood back to admire his work.  
  
Dimhirion gazed briefly out of the window, he could see the sun just beginning to sink behind the hills. Then the Elf met Bilbo's gaze, the elderly hobbit's face was glowing with a smile of appreciation. No words were exchanged between the two just then, but neither really thought any were necessary.  
  
Frodo was just beginning to come back around. As he shifted slightly in bed he groaned and his small face twisted in pain. The opium had worn off, leaving the hobbit-lad with nothing to make the pain of his recent surgery easier to bear.  
  
"Lay still, Frodo," Bilbo ordered his nephew, "moving will only make it worse."  
  
"Yes," Dimhirion broke in, "he will be quite sore for a while, I'm afraid. However, it appears as though he may come through this alive, and for that we should all be grateful."  
  
"Indeed." Bilbo whispered, content for the moment just to sit beside Frodo and listen to the child's breathing, and hold the lad's warm hand in his own.  
  
Dimhirion, on the other hand, busied himself-and Fosco, with planning what herbs and tonics would be effective for the healing process. Though the immediate danger was passed, there were still precarious times ahead.  
  
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A/N: This chapter was a bit short; the next will be longer and have more angst. Thanks for reading, please let me know what you think! :) 


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: Well, here's Chapter 16. :) I've yet to write 17, but hopefully it will be up sometime this afternoon.  
  
Thanks again for the reviews! :)  
  
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Chapter 16:  
  
Frodo had been allowed to sleep for only a few hours before Dimhirion and Fosco returned with more tea.  
  
"The most important thing now, Master Baggins, is that the infection leaves his body." Dimhirion explained carefully to a half-asleep Bilbo. "He will become very ill and die if we don't work quickly to do so."  
  
Bilbo rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up in bed before answering, "Yes," he yawned, "Yes, I know. I've heard of unfortunate hobbit's dying from blood infections." He turned his gaze back to his sleeping nephew. The poor lad was a shadow of his former self; it looked as though he had lost ten pounds during the past two days, and he was so very pale.  
  
Dimhirion placed a delicate hand lightly on Frodo's brow, "He isn't as warm as he was earlier," the Elf smiled, "that is a good sign." But his expression sobered, and he spoke again, "He will need something to lessen the pain from the surgery, and I dare not give him any more opium extract- 'tis all too easy to become dependent upon the foul liquid." Dimhirion frowned.  
  
"Though there are other things that will ease the little ones pain," he continued, "I believe the Dwaleberry lotion could do wonders when rubbed around the incisions."  
  
"I trust your judgment, Dimhirion, it has proved good thus far." Bilbo replied.  
  
The Elf nodded respectfully, "It is likely that he will only require pain relief for the first day or so."  
  
Bilbo patted Frodo's cheek gently, and brushed the dark locks from the child's eyes, "Frodo-lad," he called softly, "time to wake up-- just for a little while now, we've more tea to give you."  
  
"Bilbo?" Frodo whispered, his eyes fluttering open.  
  
Bilbo smiled down warmly at his nephew, "Yes, I'm here. Now we need you to drink some tea for us so you can be well again."  
  
Frodo nodded, and Dimhirion took the warm cup of tea from Fosco and held it to Frodo's lips. The lad took a cautious sip, disheartened to discover that it was dandelion root tea again, but relieved that the stuff was at least sweetened to his liking.  
  
He half emptied the cup before pushing it away, "No more," he breathed, "I'll be sick."  
  
Dimhirion removed the cup and handed it back to Fosco. The Elf watched pityingly as Frodo's blue eyes struggled to focus on him. "I'm sorry to say that the little one will be quite weak for a while yet, he's lost so much blood-but I'm afraid it couldn't be helped. . . perhaps if time had not been such a factor then things would have ended differently." Dimhirion added regretfully.  
  
"No, no." Bilbo interjected, "I thank you for your help, were it not for you, Frodo would have died a day before. I am eternally in your debt for the services you have provided my lad with." The old hobbit smiled.  
  
"And for that I thank you, Master Baggins," The Elf replied, "I considered it my duty as one trained in the ways of healing."  
  
There was a brief silence between the two, broken only by a small noise coming from Frodo. The hobbit-lad let his head fall to the side, and whimpered quietly.  
  
"What is it, lad?" Bilbo asked gently.  
  
Frodo opened his mouth to speak, but several seconds passed before any sound came out, "Hurts. . . Bilbo."  
  
Bilbo looked up at Dimhirion, his brow furrowed with worry, and the Elf rose from the bed and fetched Dwaleberry lotion from Fosco's bag.  
  
The Elf gently lifted the blankets from atop Frodo's mid-section and began to smear the lotion around gently.  
  
Frodo cried out and arched his back as he gripped Bilbo's arm tightly. The incisions were quite painful, and he was loath to let anyone touch them, even the Elf's gentle ministrations caused him pain.  
  
"Easy now, Frodo-lad, just a moment and he'll be done. I promise." Bilbo answered, gently stroking the hobbit-lad's cheek.  
  
Frodo made no reply, but seemed to calm a little more as the lotion began to take effect.  
  
"I advise," Dimhirion broke the silence that had settled in the dimness of the little room once more, "that he takes plenty of Yarrow extract tea as well. It will aid in cleansing his blood of infection."  
  
"I've plenty of dried Yarrow back home," Fosco piped up, "I'll be more than happy to fetch it if you wish."  
  
"That would be most kind of you, master healer." The Elf replied.  
  
Fosco departed shortly after to retrieve the Yarrow leaves, and Peppermint for settling the lad's stomach.  
  
After Fosco's departure, Dimhirion set to wiping the excess lotion away from Frodo's incision's, he then put a small amount of honeysuckle root extract around the stitches, to speed the healing process. The Elf did however, notice with concern that both of the drains that had been set in place were clogged with dried blood, he immediately went to work at replacing the old reeds with new ones.  
  
Bilbo busied himself with changing the bed linens again. Now that the worst was over for Frodo, he believed it best to remove all soiled bedding and replace it with fresh.  
  
Dimhirion assisted in changing the hobbit-lad's nightshift, and giving him a sponge bath to remove the blood that had dried on his torso.  
  
"As soon as his stomach can handle it, I strongly recommend that you start him on light broths-nothing oily or harsh, just something to start the normal function's of his body going again." Dimhirion explained, "The little one will regain his strength in time, but you must be careful not to push him; he has been through quite an ordeal, and to survive it proves that he possess remarkable strength." The Elf continued, looking down in admiration at the resting hobbit-lad, "Don't start him back on solid foods before a week has passed, unless he insists. If he does insist, then only very light foods such as applesauce should be given."  
  
"How long will you stay?" Bilbo asked, the question had been weighing on his mind nearly since the Elf's arrival that morning. He didn't know how in the world he would care for Frodo on his own, he had so little knowledge of nursing someone back to health, or caring for an ill child.  
  
"I'm afraid I won't be able to stay much longer." Dimhirion answered regretfully, "It is likely that my companions have already reached the Havens, and I do not wish for them to sail without me." He continued, "I will stay through the night at least, and perhaps mid-day tomorrow. Don't worry, Bilbo, I will be here to see Frodo through the worst of it."  
  
"What is worse that's yet to come?" asked Bilbo, his concerned voice barely above a whisper.  
  
Dimhirion paused in his bathing of Frodo, and looked up to answer, "I am concerned that perhaps he could suffer some effects from the opium that has been given him." The Elf admitted, "Though he has been under its influence off and on for less than two days, as I said before, it is quick to trap one in its thralls. Frodo being so young, and so weak, could have taken to it faster than most." Dimhirion paused, seeing the concern grow in Bilbo's eyes, "Do not worry, Master Baggins, I won't leave until whatever's to come has passed." He smiled.  
  
Bilbo sighed with relief; he couldn't bear the thought of losing Frodo now, after how far he'd come.  
  
Dimhirion piled fresh blankets atop the sleeping tween after he was bathed and clothed in clean garments, "He need's to sleep as much as he will and must be kept warm, his body will do much healing on it's own." The Elf continued to explain; "Even when he wakes, he mustn't rise from bed too soon, it would only tax what little strength he still has, and chance upsetting the stitches in his incisions, "But I believe he'll be quite content, for a while at least, just to rest and recover some of his strength."  
  
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A/N: More angst will be worked into the next Chapter. ;) 


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: Here's Chapter 17! Sorry it's late-between school and family I'm amazed that I ever get anything done :p (lol). Unfortunately I failed to meet my own deadline of finishing this fic by tonight (homework is a drag!). :( But I do feel as though I've made good progress-about two more chapters until it's finished. Hopefully, I can upload the next of the two sometime tomorrow (it will most likely be rather long), and then the next one by the following day.  
  
Thank you all so much for your reviews and encouragement and compliments! :) It's wonderful to know that others are enjoying reading this fic as much as I'm enjoying writing it! :)  
  
Tiggivon: I'm glad you like all of the remedies! :) It's truly amazing to discover how many uses these plants really have.  
  
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Chapter 17:  
  
Sometime during the wee hours of the morning Frodo woke with a start. He stared blankly up at the rafters in his room at Bag End. It was the first time in days that he had had a waking moment that wasn't plagued by the severe abdominal pain that accompanied his illness; yet the pain had been replaced by a terrible feeling of nausea.  
  
The hobbit-lad swallowed several times, trying to force the feeling down and go back to sleep. He looked over and saw Bilbo sleeping next to him, a look of tranquility on his aged features. Across the room, he could just make out Dimhirion's form, sitting on the floor in front of the round window, gazing up at the bright stars.  
  
Frodo carefully pulled the blankets up to his face, wincing as the fabric dragged across the cuts in his abdomen. Despite the fact that there was a steady fire burning in the hearth, the tween still felt chilled, and his stomach had begun cramping persistently.  
  
He didn't feel comfortable at all on his back, he wanted more than anything to turn onto his side and curl up against Bilbo's warm body, but he couldn't muster the strength to do so. Everything in the room appeared to be shifting slightly, almost as if he had been spinning in circles and then suddenly stopped. Another wave of nausea hit him hard just then, and he gagged in anticipation of vomiting.  
  
Dimhirion heard Frodo stir, and turned away from the window. He rose from his seat and went to Frodo's side. He could tell by the thin sheen of sweat on the hobbit-lads face, and Frodo's labored breathing that the child was feeling poorly.  
  
"I was afraid this would happen," he thought aloud as he began absentmindedly stroking Frodo's dark curls away from his blue eyes. "Do not be afraid, little one, this is normal and it will pass." He assured the frightened tween.  
  
Frodo nodded weakly, he gasped in pain as his stomach cramped again and he nearly lost his battle with the nausea.  
  
Dimhirion looked to Bilbo, who was still asleep. He debated whether or not to wake the elderly hobbit. The Elf knew what it was that plagued Frodo, his body was in turmoil after having the opium taken away so quickly. Dimhirion had hoped that the effects would be minimal, but it was still too soon to tell. In any case it would likely subside as quickly as it had come. 'Better to get it over with now,' thought the Elf. There was nothing he could do for Frodo, just be with him as the sickness came.  
  
The hobbit-lad gripped the sheets tightly and a barely audible cry escaped his trembling lips. He couldn't understand why he felt so wretched.  
  
"Poor lad," Dimhirion soothed, "I know you don't understand why this is happening." He whispered.  
  
Frodo groaned as he felt his stomach churn, he turned his head to the side and began vomiting. He cried out in pain as he somehow found himself lying on his side, putting stress on the fresh incisions. He felt Dimhirion's gentle hands rubbing his back and helping him through the spell. Tears began to run down Frodo's cheeks and he cried out again, this time loudly enough to wake Bilbo.  
  
The elderly hobbit bolted upright in bed, alarmed to hear his nephew's strangled cries. "Oh dear, lad," He fretted upon seeing his nephew hunched over vomiting, "I'm so sorry. . ." he immediately fetched a cloth to wipe the lad's face with.  
  
Frodo sobbed with relief and gripped a handful of bedding as the heaves finally let up. His stomach continued to cramp relentlessly, as though he had eaten something that disagreed with him.  
  
Dimhirion used the moment of quiet to explain to Bilbo what was happening. The old hobbit had become very concerned about Frodo's apparent turn for the worse. "Don't worry, Bilbo," said the Elf, "I know you're alarmed, but this will pass quickly. His body is suffering from the abrupt removal of the painkilling drug."  
  
"Oh, my poor lad," said Bilbo, his voice full of pity, "What can we do to help him?" he added quickly.  
  
Dimhirion shook his head, "I'm afraid the only thing that will help is time, and it shouldn't be long before this passes. He did not have long- term exposure to the drug, so the withdrawal symptoms should pass relatively quickly." He assured the hobbit.  
  
Bilbo nodded, but the look of concern on his face didn't diminish in the least.  
  
Frodo panted for breath as he recovered from the bout of vomiting. His teeth were now chattering loudly, and goose bumps had formed on his arms and legs.  
  
Dimhirion quickly lifted the covers, despite Frodo's cry of protest; he felt it necessary to check the incisions. To his relief, they were still fully intact, but blood was leaking from the newer of the two cuts. Bilbo handled Dimhirion the damp cloth, and the Elf gently dabbed at the blood that was seeping from the wound.  
  
Frodo winced as the cold cloth came in contact with his tender belly, and Bilbo did his best to sooth him through the pain, but unfortunately his touch could do little to ease the lad's suffering.  
  
Frodo's grip tightened as his stomach twisted, he felt the urge to be sick return again. "Bilbo!" he cried, "Bilbo, m- make it st- stop." The lad pleaded, "I feel s- so bad." He cried.  
  
"Oh, Frodo I wish so much that I could make it stop, dear boy." Bilbo answered, his voice full of pity, "I'm so sorry, lad." He shook his head, "I promise I won't leave you."  
  
Soon Frodo found himself enduring another painful spell of vomiting; it put a strain on his freshly stitched wounds, and further weakened his already weary body. Bilbo looked up anxiously at Dimhirion after a particularly sharp cry escaped Frodo; he was terrified that the lad was dying.  
  
Dimhirion put a kind hand on Bilbo's shoulder, offering what comfort he could, and wordlessly reassuring the old hobbit that Frodo would survive this.  
  
Fosco woke upon hearing all of the commotion; he entered the room and saw Frodo's back turned to him, his small figure shuddering with the force of each heave. The sight of it was disheartening, considering how well Frodo had been doing earlier that evening. Fosco felt a little better, however, when he remembered that he had brought peppermint for tea, to settle the lad's stomach. The hobbit-healer went straight away to the kitchen and lit a fire in the stove; he set a kettle of water on to boil.  
  
After he started heating the water, Fosco returned to Frodo's room to see if he could be of any assistance. Dimhirion lifted Frodo from the bed, ignoring the child's protest, and instructed the two hobbits to change the soiled bedding.  
  
Once fresh blankets were on the bed, Dimhirion replaced the sick lad and covered him well while Bilbo added wood to build up the fire. Frodo was still experiencing chills, and Bilbo wanted to ensure that the lad felt as warm as possible.  
  
Fosco had just returned from the kitchen with the hot peppermint tea when Frodo experienced another wave of stomach cramps. The hobbit-lad hunched over and squeezed his eyes shut; a quiet moan escaped his lips then despite his best efforts not to cry out.  
  
"I'm here, lad," Bilbo soothed, "It'll pass soon, I promise." Bilbo was a little more relaxed now that he was aware that the pain Frodo was in was not related to his illness, but to the drug he had been given.  
  
Frodo shook his head in reply to Bilbo's comments; he was still unable to speak as the cramping continued.  
  
Fosco approached the bed, and set the cup of tea down on Frodo's nightstand. He could only look on pityingly as the tween struggled to bear his pain in silence. The healer opened his mouth to speak, but Dimhirion stopped him.  
  
"There is nothing we can do, Master Fields. This must run its course." The Elf answered Fosco's unasked question. "Though I will say, do not fear, for his life is not in danger over this. My only concern is that it weakens him further."  
  
Dimhirion felt Frodo's small body relax beneath his hands. The Elf knew that it meant Frodo was experiencing relief, for the time being at least. Fosco took that time to offer the hobbit-lad some peppermint tea, which he accepted at his uncles urging.  
  
After drinking the tea, Frodo settled down into his blankets and drifted into a restless sleep. However, the same cannot be said for Bilbo, who was up the rest of the night keeping watch over his lad, trying to ward off the boy's chills with his own warmth.  
  
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A/N: I hope to have the next chapter uploaded by tomorrow night. Thanks again for reading! :) 


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: Well, I'm finally getting the chance to update this fic. I apologize endlessly for the ridiculous delay. 

I've updated my website to include a revised version of "And In The Darkness Bind Him". I corrected mainly things that were pointed out by reviewers, OOC moments, and grammatical errors, to the best of my ability. I plan to revise and repost all of my fics there. 

I thank all of you for the wonderful reviews! :) You're all very kind, and I appreciate your taking time to review my fic. I wish I could comment on all of them! It's been so long since I've updated this (*hides face in shame*) that I doubt anyone who reviewed remembers reviewing, so I don't see a point in replying to the reviews, as most of them were left back in October. 

UbiquitousPitt, thank you for your review! I'm glad that you have enjoyed the story. I'm impressed that someone who isn't a fan of healing fics was interested in reading "September". I almost feel like it was more angsty and h/c oriented than any of my other fics thus far. I also thank you for your comments on "Describing A Memory"; I tried to be as descriptive as possible when writing it. Though I suppose the title suggests as much. :) 

A big thank you as well to my beta reader for correcting my mistakes in this chapter! :) 

There will be an epilogue to this fic (thank you Shirebound for that wonderful idea!). The epilogue will be one chapter, but divided into two parts. It will take place over two different time periods, one not so far in the future (I plan to bring back something from an earlier chapter), and one some years later.

Chapter 18: 

Bilbo sat attentively at Frodo's bedside, watching the morning sunlight flicker off of the sleeping tween's face. The lad seemed at peace, his expression relaxed and his breathing even. Though, Bilbo couldn't help but notice that the child was still deathly pale. 

"No matter," Bilbo thought aloud, "time mends all things, and this shall be no exception." He smiled to himself, so proud of his dear lad's bravery and strength. The elderly hobbit reached a hand down and gently felt Frodo's cheek with the back of it, relieved to see that Frodo felt cooler than he had earlier that morning.

Frodo's eyes fluttered open slowly and the faintest of smiles graced his features. "Good morning, Bilbo." He whispered. 

The elderly hobbit felt his heart swell with joy at those words, "How do you feel, Frodo-lad? Is there anything I can get for you? A piece of buttered toast or some soup perhaps?" 

Frodo almost chuckled at his uncle's enthusiasm. He shook his head; the thought of anything remotely savory or solid still made his stomach churn, "No thank you, Bilbo." He replied, watching Bilbo's face fall as soon as the words were spoken. Frodo cocked his head to the side, "But some tea would be nice, if it's not too much trouble." The lad added, not wanting to disappoint his uncle too greatly. 

Bilbo leapt to his feet in eagerness, "'Tis no problem at all Frodo-lad!" he called, already halfway to the kitchen. 

Before the old hobbit went to set water on to boil, he went to the front door to retrieve Dimhirion. The elf had stepped outside to take in some fresh air. He didn't quite feel himself when he wasn't outside with nature, among the world he had come to love so dearly throughout the course of his long life. 

"Dimhirion!" Bilbo called in his excitement. 

"Here!" the elf replied gently, a smile lighting his fair features, "I trust the young Baggins has woken?" 

"Yes, indeed he has. And he's asked that I make him some tea." Bilbo rambled in his excited state, "Though," the old hobbit continued, "I would appreciate it if you would, perhaps, sit with him while I'm in the kitchen?" 

Dimhirion nodded in agreement, "Yes, we ought not leave him alone so soon." 

Bilbo gave his thanks before heading to the kitchen to boil enough water for several varieties of tea for the lad. 

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Dimhirion knocked quietly at Frodo's door before entering. 

"Come in," came a small voice from within. 

The elf smiled, happier than ever to hear the small hobbit's pleasant voice, for once unhindered by fear and pain. "Good morning, Frodo." He greeted the tween. 

Frodo nodded, sighing as the Elf took a seat on the floor next to his bed. 

"Are you well this morning?" Dimhirion asked at length. 

Frodo thought for a moment, the pain from his surgery hadn't really let up in the least. "Well, my stomach is still rather sore." He confessed, "From where… where the stitches are." he ended, the thought of talking about knives or needles made his stomach throb. 

"Yes, little one." The Elf nodded sadly, "That is to be expected. But it will, no doubt, be gone by next week. Already I can tell that you are a fast healer." He smiled. 

Frodo chuckled then, "Yes, thanks to a learned healer!" His tiny features had already begun regaining the healthy glow of life. 

The Elf smiled again. Dimhirion reached up and touched Frodo's forehead, his expression sobering, "Do you remember anything from last night?" the Elf asked. 

Frodo shook his head slowly, "Nothing, really. I just remember that my head hurt terribly, and it was so cold…" he trailed off, shifting tentatively beneath the blankets, wincing as his stomach protested. 

Dimhirion noticed Frodo's discomfort. He meant to check the lad's incisions once more before he left for the Havens. The elf gently lifted Frodo's bed covers, and pulled up his nightshift just enough to see the two cuts, and check that the drains that had been set in place were unclogged. 

Frodo's eyes grew teary as he felt the elf's gentle hands probing carefully around his wounds. 

Dimhirion worked as quickly and gently as possible to ensure that the hobbit-lad felt the least pain possible. "I am sorry Frodo, but this must be done. You are not yet completely out of danger." 

The hobbit-lad nodded, swallowing hard and closing his eyes; he allowed his head to fall back to the headboard of his bead. 

Soon Dimhirion finished his examination, and replaced Frodo's covers. Bilbo returned to Frodo's room then carrying a tray filled with several cups of steaming teas: ginger, mint, and dandelion. 

Frodo's eyes grew wide, "You don't want me to drink all of those, do you Bilbo?" 

Bilbo grinned, setting the tray down carefully on Frodo's nightstand, "You must at least drink the dandelion, Frodo, and half of the mint as well." Bilbo instructed. 

Frodo groaned in disgust, "But dandelion's my least favorite!" he cried. 

"I know, lad, but it's necessary. The healer says you need to clean your system, and dandelion is the best cure we've got for that." He finished, lifting the steaming cup of dandelion tea from its place on the tray. "Don't worry, it's been sweetened." 

Dimhirion used this opportunity to announce that he had to leave. After examining Frodo's incisions, and witnessing the fight the lad had put up over the dandelion tea, he felt sure that Frodo would recover in good time; and he had confidence in Fosco and Bilbo's ability to care for the lad. He had spoken with Fosco earlier on how to care for Frodo, and what to do should something go wrong. 

"Master Baggins," the Elf interrupted the exchange between Bilbo and his cousin, "Frodo," he paused, waiting for their attention. Once he had it, he continued, "It has been my pleasure to be here helping you. I only wish our meeting could have been under happier circumstances, little one." He sighed regretfully, cupping Frodo's small face in one hand. 

The elf would have added that perhaps they _would_ meet again and under much happier circumstances. But he knew it could not be so, for this hobbit-child was mortal. His life span would be ended even before a sapling in the forest could grow to peek out from the canopy above and gaze upon the blue sky in all its glory. It saddened him to know this, yet it must be so for mortal lives. Beautiful things, they could be. Like a spring flower, and equally as delicate. And like the beauty of a flower, the beauty of a mortal life was but a fleeting thing in the story of the world, yet not unimportant. Dimhirion somehow felt better to have extended the spring of this new flower's life, to have saved him from an early frost, so that he may perhaps go on to bring others joy and hope. 

"I am honored to have been able to assist the two of you." Dimhirion bowed before the two hobbits, both of whom managed to blush furiously. "Ah look, I believe your color is indeed beginning to return, Frodo." The Elf teased gently, his light laughter filled the smial with the sound of sunlight. 

Then Dimhirion turned to Fosco, who had been sitting quietly in a corner of Frodo's room. "You, Fosco, are a master healer among your people." The elf smiled kindly, "Never have I seen one so skilled in the field, outside of my own race." And he bowed low to the bewildered hobbit. Fosco nearly fell out of his chair in his eagerness to return the gesture. 

"I trust Fosco's judgment," the elf continued, "I entrust Frodo to his care. Unfortunately I myself must depart as soon as possible." He sighed regretfully, "My people await the ship, at the Havens. I have already dwelt here too long." 

The three hobbits' gazes fell upon Dimhirion at hearing those words. This was hardly a time to mourn, because thankfully Frodo had been saved. Though all three wished the elf could stay, if for only a little while. 

"Very well," said Bilbo, "It grieves me to see you leave, and for what you have done I cannot begin to thank you, or reward you—" 

"Do not worry," the elf interrupted, "I require no payment for my services. Material payments, such as money, will be of little use to me beyond mortal lands." Dimhirion smiled. 

"Is there nothing then that I can do to repay you?" Bilbo asked anxiously, his eyes searching the elf's face. 

"There is one thing," said Dimhirion, "You can promise me something. Promise me that you will always care for Frodo. It shouldn't be difficult, I've rarely seen a stronger bond between two mortals." 

Bilbo smiled, blushing, "Of course. I would not have it any other way!" 

"I know, Master Baggins." He replied. 

Bilbo rose from his place by Frodo's bed, "Shall we escort you back to the main road?" he asked the elf. 

"No, you need not worry about that. I know the way to the Sea." Dimhirion said, "And I believe it's best you both stay here with Frodo, he has but begun his road to recovery." 

"Then I will at least see you to the door," Bilbo piped up. 

"Frodo," the elf turned then to the pale hobbit-lad resting on the bead, "You take plenty of rest, get well. You will be fine in good time." He smiled. 

"Thank you, Dimhirion." Frodo answered, "Thank you for coming to help me," the little hobbit whispered, "I'll never forget you, nor your kindness." 

"Nor will I forget you, Frodo." Dimhirion smiled, giving the small hobbit's hand a light squeeze. 

The elf then rose from his seat in Frodo's room and made his way to Bag End's main exit with Bilbo in tow.

TBC…


End file.
